Death's Ballet
by Ilysia11
Summary: He always got screwed over. Dropped in unfamiliar situations without reason. Fate's plaything, Fate's punching bag. Suddenly dumped into a world of wizards without explanation, it was a wonder he only had a little bit of an existential mindset. And this was from a guy who knew real-live deities existed and what the afterlife was like. Nico just wanted to go home. Rewrite of DWTD.
1. Chapter 1

"_Oh gods, Nico . . . you didn't . . ." Percy stared at him, open-mouthed with horror._

"_You . . . you really went to him, didn't you? Even after . . . after . . ." He sucked in a breath and didn't finish. _

_Nico stood still; he felt like he was in a straitjacket. How could he have found out? He didn't—he wasn't going to—! Damn it! He clenched his fists._

_ "Are you calling me a traitor, Percy?" he snarled. _

_Percy stared at him, eyes hardening._

_ "I guess so. Why did you do it, Nico? What could Kronos have that you—_we—_ don't?"_

_ "Nothing!" he sneered. "I didn't go to him!"_

_Percy narrowed his eyes. "I saw you coming out of his camp, unharmed. Don't give me that shit. Stop lying and come clean, Nico! It's not too late to get out while you can."_

_ "No it's not—because I was never in there in the fucking first place!"_

_Even as he said that, even as Percy simply stared at him with that knowing look in his eyes, Nico didn't know it he truly believed that . . ._

_He swallowed. "Please, just—just let me in. I want to help; this world can't go to Kronos!" Percy studied him with harsh judgment in his eyes. Nico fidgeted. _

_What was taking so long? Didn't they need all the support they could get? _

_A__nd yet Percy continued to hesitate. Nico felt as if he had been stabbed._

_ ". . . Come in," he finally muttered, moving out of the doorway. _

_Nico slowly entered the headquarters, muscles tense and alert, like a stranger in an unfamiliar world. Percy closed the door behind and took the lead. But even as he led Nico in, Nico felt something shatter between them, leaving behind an invisible wound. Nico wondered if it was one that would ever heal completely._

* * *

><p>"Damn."<p>

There was an array of apartment buildings before him, monotonous and dark in the pitch-black shadows of night. Windows seemed lumped together, metal and glass tangled to create old-fashioned, lopsided masterpieces. The doors looked plastic and dusty even though he couldn't see very well. He scowled.

The buildings looked like something out of a horror movie in which the stupid chick walks into and subsequently screams her ass off. _Ah memories . . . _Percy and Annabeth had made him watch lots, trying to scare him.

(Suffice to say . . . it didn't work.)

The night air swept around him, embracing his lithe body; he shivered, wishing he had a jacket. Goose bumps covered his bare arms. But he supposed he only had himself to thank for that; he hated long-sleeve shirts. _My aviator jacket would have been a boon though . . . _

The lights inside each building were shut off, with only the occasional lamppost lighting up the street. If there were no lights, Nico was sure the boogeyman would have enjoyed living here.

Nico snorted, and taking advantage of the lights (no matter how limited) he squinted, just making out the tiny numbers engraved in the shadowed brick.

The numbers directly in front of him were ten, eleven, and oddly enough thirteen. Twelve was blotched out. Nico's brows furrowed.

Odd . . .

He sighed, looking back up at the black backdrop of a night sky.

Whatever he was doing before, he knew it wasn't touring old apartment buildings. Especially at night.

(Why the Hades would anyone do that? It wasn't even Halloween yet.)

One minute he was just randomly walking . . . somewhere . . . and the next he was standing here with a faint feeling of nausea.

As if on cue, his stomach swirled uneasily. He winced. He was glad he didn't eat anything previously; he had nothing to throw up.

(Though maybe he wished he did; at least it meant he would have an illusion of three meals a day.)

Wherever he was, it wasn't New York. Hell, it wasn't even Los Angeles. Was he even in New York or Los Angeles previously?

So then where the Hades was he?

He glared at the building. He didn't like this. Something bigger was going on; something that would bite him in the ass later. He scowled. And all he'd wanted to do was relax now that the Second Titan War was over.

_I'll get to relax when Percy strips down in front of Chiron, proclaiming his "eternal love."_

Nico snorted at the ridiculous mental image and looked back at the building for what seemed the tenth time. He was beginning to get restless. He was cold, hungry, and irritated. He swallowed. He needed to get out of here. But . . . where would he go?

He didn't know where he was or why he was here. The "how" was also an unknown. He clenched his fists. He didn't like being messed around with. Whoever was doing this to him would experience a bit of _pain_ when he got back . . .

He breathed in, calmly.

He needed to make a decision, calmly.

(Calm down . . .)

The apartment buildings didn't look very inviting. But they weren't exactly uninviting. So one night should be fine . . . then he'd disappear.

He took a step forward and—

_(Agony.)_

Pain rippled through his body. He froze, gasping for breath, clutching his chest.

_Wha—what is this?_

Ghostly wails—piercing in intensity, heartbreaking in sound—invaded the silence.

They were angry. They were lonely. They were . . .

(Just like him.)

The screams tore through his eardrums, even as he tried to block it out.

And a scent . . . there was a peculiar scent that he had only smelled in the Underworld.

It was the scent of death . . . of a soul.

This soul . . . he cringed. It was shrouded in torment. Nico felt jagged edges throwing their claws at him, but failing.

The soul hissed at him. He gritted his teeth and swatted it away. Disgust flared up in him as he touched it.

Instantly he knew what it was.

_Abomination. Monster. Parasite._

He had to destroy it. Nothing this terrible deserved to live.

It was _impossibility_. What idiot had done this? Mass murder for something as stupid as immortality. What . . . what _bastard_ had made this—this—

_Abomination. Monster. Parasite._

Nico reluctantly reached toward the soul in his mind's eye, trying to sense what he was up against.

His eyes snapped wide-open. This wasn't the only piece split from the soul. There was another in that very building. Both of them were so close together it was laughable.

Fists clenched, Nico took a step forward. As if obeying some invisible compass, he swiveled from east to west then crossed the sidewalk and stopped at a brick wall.

The brick building loomed high above him, but something felt off about it. It felt obscured—mired in secrets. A feeling wafted off of it into the air around Nico. That was when he realized.

Magic.

It was definitely magic, only a lot more muddled than that of Hecate's children. It was less pure; entangled.

Hades had told his son of wizards and witches once, but Nico hadn't really believed it, nor felt the need to look into it. Could . . . could his father have been telling him a true story?

Did Hecate really bless a group of mortals?

_And I thought he was shitting me . . . Wait! He might have . . . making me think this._

He scowled. _Still though . . . _If he _was_ dealing with an idiotic mortal—_wizard_—then he needed to contain the damage. Who knows how many more he or she might have told, how many more mortals trying to destroy nature's already precarious balance. Kronos had very nearly obliterated it and look where that had almost sent the world! Chaos and misfortune, blood and death, loss, _grief—_

"_Nico! Nico . . ."_

He shook himself out of his memories. He couldn't—if he thought about . . . about _her _then . . .

_No. It's over. She's . . . in a better place._

Swallowing painfully, he looked back at the wall. Furrowing his brow, he looked deeper and caught the barest traces of—of _something. _

_Something_ was behind here, hidden by magic.

But . . . what would it be? He squinted, reaching out further, trying to discern the clouded image, that secret feeling. He paused. Maybe it was a secret hideout? Or a secret compartment? Such an area was great for keeping things hidden but it was so _obvious! _Unless . . . no one else in this . . . _world _(he was reluctant to admit it, still unsure whether or not he was being pranked) could sense it. Maybe—his eyes widened.

_Ah. Twelve._

Twelve was missing from the apartment buildings. So it was the twelfth building that was hidden.

He took a step back and immersed himself in the shadows. He shivered in pleasure as a chill caressed his body; the embrace of darkness. Within it was a chill so cold it was warm, an atmosphere so shrouded in loneliness that it was anything but. A paradox of feelings but an instrument of comfort.

He hurtled through a dark tunnel at electrifying speeds, like an exhilarating roller coaster ride, darkness wrapping around him like a blanket, shielding him from harm.

All too soon it came to a stop. The tunnel opened in a circular hole, revealing a minimally lighted room. He landed on the floor, silent and graceful, like a cat.

(Or maybe like a ninja . . . _if I want to flatter myself.)_

He quickly looked around and confirmed that it was indeed a building that was hidden. A door was behind him leading to other rooms. A huge, old, musty drawer sat to the right of Nico and a couple of dusty folding chairs were splayed lazily on the ground to his left.

To the naked eye, the building would look abandoned, but Nico knew better. There were various signs that people were in here. Some drawers were left open and the trail of dust on most of the floor was bleeped out in footprint-shaped holes.

He reached out for the soul (if one could call it that)—

_Screams!_—full, blown-out _screams_!

He breathed roughly, clutching his head and trying to appease the pain striking at his head like a hammer.

It was here; one of _them_ was here.

The hammer turned into a wrecking ball and it took all his strength to make that step forward, to close that abyss within which he fell, that nerve-wrecking shriek of anger and misery—

_Stop,_ said he, the harbinger of death and balance, said he who had won an impossible war, said he who forced close that painful abyss . . .

He breathed a sigh of relief, body slightly trembling. He reached up to his ears, and upon striking a wet, sticky liquid, recoiled. He stared at the sanguine liquid, dazed but not surprised.

His ears _throbbed_ and he listened to the rhythmic beat, so soothing, almost, a pleasurable throbbing, and an aftershock of endless agony—

He closed his eyes . . .

_Focus._

He stood back up and dusted himself.

Nico walked toward the old drawer, where the split soul resided. His hand shot out and jerked the middle drawer out. He frowned. It didn't budge.

He tried again. Again. _Open. Open!_

"—_told me that the definition of insanity was doing something over and over again but expecting different results."_

Bubbling with frustration, he almost burned the entire chest, but quickly caught himself.

It was then that he realized he could just use his shadows to transport it out. He facepalmed and stood still for a single second. The throbbing was mere background music. Frowning, he wiped the blood from his ears with his shirt before it could dry, knowing that it would not reveal itself on the black surface.

Fearing infection, he pulled a piece of squished ambrosia from the back of his jeans and consumed it whole. Moments later, his throbbing receded and he prayed to the gods that it would heal everything.

One quick thought and he had the object filled with the split soul in his hand.

It was a heavy gold locket featuring a serpentine _S_ inlaid in glittering green gems on its front.

_Abomination. Monster. Parasite._

There was a tangible force field around it, trying to lure him back into that abyss . . . He ignored it. His shadows enveloped him like a cloak, protecting him from the locket's malicious influence.

He narrowed his eyes in disgust and summoned his sword. A three-foot long sword of Stygian Iron appeared overflowing with shadows in Nico's outstretched hand.

His fingers gripped the sword and the shadows left, receding back to the edges of the walls.

It would have been better perhaps if it was opened but this was the best Nico could do on short notice. He carefully placed the thing on the ground with the _S_ facing him. Gripping his sword with both hands, he plunged downward.

A bloodcurdling scream broke out as soon as the sword pierced the locket. Nico winced, his eardrums pounding, but pressed onward. Shadows flooded his ears, muting the scream, saving him from injury . . .

His closed his eyes, gathering his power and ignoring the soul's tortuous cries. He let up as he felt the soul fade into nothingness.

_It was gone_.

Silence draped over the room and Nico opened his eyes, feeling drained.

He let go of his sword, letting it land on the ground with a loud metal clang. He toppled down after it, looking at his results. The locket was in shambles—completely ruined. Hellfire had charred it to rubble, black and ashy. Filthy.

He winced. His head pounded. His limbs were sluggish. The Hellfire had drained him . . . If only he had eaten more and conserved his energy . . . then he would be fine. He languidly put away his sword, sending it back to the shadows.

His vision felt hazy and his ears were pounding so loudly he couldn't concentrate. He panted like a dog. His eyelids were so heavy . . . He was lucky he even heard the footsteps resounding behind him.

He swiveled around slowly and blinked a few times before his vision came into focus. A group of people stared at him, stunned. Their faces were obscured by the darkness and Nico's weakening vision didn't help. He blinked twice more, trying to keep from falling unconscious. _Damn . . . Not today . . . Why now!_

One of them shuffled forth and demanded, "Who are you and how did you get in here?"

The figure held something that vaguely resembled a stick towards Nico. Other than that, Nico just managed to register that it was a gruff, male voice thick with suspicion, when the lull of blackness called to him. He struggled to stay awake but his eyelids . . . so heavy . . . and his limbs wouldn't move . . .

(He automatically knew he wouldn't get to take care of the other torn soul today.)

* * *

><p><strong>Don't expect frequent updates. I am a slave to schoolwork and am honestly teetering on the suicidal edge.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

"I say we use veritaserum on the boy. We—"

"He's _just _a boy! Look at how thin he is. He _shouldn't_ be forced into an interrogation! The poor boy—"

"Molly, please. I am not saying we should act upon either course of action. But Alastor, veritaserum may be unnecessary."

Alastor scoffed. "Constant vigilance, Albus! How else are we going to get the guaranteed truth out of the boy—"

"Maybe we could just ask him. He's too young to be a Death Eater—"

"He could be using Polyjuice Potion?—"

"No, you dolt! We've been here longer than an hour—"

Albus Dumbledore had a splitting headache.

An emergency meeting had been called ever since the intruder had been found unconscious. He had been moved to the kitchen table where charms had been placed upon him to notify Albus when he awoke.

They had been residing on chairs in the drawing room—the very scene of the crime—for at least an hour, arguing over the course of action. Albus had seen the unconscious boy lying on the table in the kitchen. The boy was pale beyond belief yet paradoxically retaining an olive skin tone.

He had dark hair, in a similar style to Harry's hair, and seemed to be around fifteen with a tall, lean build. Albus had yet to discover how he had even gotten into Twelve Grimmauld Place. He could not have apparated; he should not have even seen the old apartment.

The apartment was protected by the Fidelis Charm. Only Albus could have told the boy how to get in there which he had no recollection of doing. The boy was as much a stranger to him as he probably was to the boy.

But even more astonishing was that the drawer that was reportedly impenetrable had been cracked open by the intruder. The drawer showed no signs of stress which led Albus to believe it had been opened magically, but with no spell he knew. And the drawer had not been opened without purpose.

Next to the boy, utterly ruined and destroyed, was a locket. Albus held it in his hands now, rubbing the charred surface. As he had inspected it, he had realized it for what it was. It was Slytherin's locket. Remnants of the emeralds still stained the surface, somehow retaining the serpentine outline.

He had been quite perturbed that the boy would destroy a priceless heirloom such as this. Knowingly or unknowingly he did not know. But he wanted to find out. There was also the question of _why_ the locket was in there in the first place and _how_ the boy knew of its existence.

A twinkle lit up in his eye; this was an interesting mystery, one he would surely have fun solving.

"Albus! Are you hearing this? We need to decide before an all out _war_ breaks out!" Minerva McGonagall whispered fiercely.

"Yes, Minerva, I'm quite aware," he responded, dipping his head to her.

She stared incredulously at him.

"Then why don't you do something, Albus?" Albus smiled gently at her.

"We need to choose carefully," was his vague response.

Minerva kept staring at him, disbelieving. Albus chuckled and decided to humor his Deputy and stop the debate.

"Veritaserum is always one hundred percent effective!" Alastor Moody barked.

"And illegal . . .," someone muttered.

"Everyone, calm down. We need to decide," Albus paused, tilting his head to the side, "I think our guest has awakened."

A brief, peaceful silence stayed any voices and then, "Albus, what do you suppose we should do?"

Albus simply smiled and nodded respectfully at the man.

"I think we should go meet our young guest. We need to gain his trust so he will willingly tell us how he breached our defenses."

Nods of approval wafted through the crowd. Even Alastor grudgingly approved.

"Alright then, what are we waiting for? Let's go meet the boy."

Ten minutes later, the majority of the Order had left for the warm comfort of their beds or the harsh reality of work. Those few that stayed were the Weasleys', Sirius, Remus, Alastor Moody, and surprisingly, Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape.

They had all gathered in the kitchen, taking cautious steps toward the fully-awake boy studying each and every one of them from on top of the table with the calculating shrewdness of a Slytherin. But he stood up to them with the courageousness of a Gryffindor.

_Interesting_, Albus thought.

Their guest had some hidden talents, but for now they needed to focus on getting his basic information as well as how he got in here. Albus also wanted to know why he destroyed a priceless artifact.

He was staring at the boy, silently evaluating him when his blue eyes met the boy's solid black ones. Albus sobered as he realized the depth of those eyes. They had seen war, pain and death. Those eyes were too old for their body. It saddened Albus to see that the young had to endure this kind of pain so early in life.

He had already seen it in Harry as well as some other kids, remnants of Voldemort's reign.

"Who are you?" the boy asked, calmly and quietly.

Albus raised his eyebrows. The boy had an American accent. That was interesting. Was he from America or was it acting? The Order members voiced nothing; their faces foretold of their surprise.

"I am Albus Dumbledore. Might I ask your name?"

He expected to see the spark of recognition ignite in the boy's face. But nothing happened. The boy paused, looking around the room with an unreadable expression.

"The rest of you?" he prompted.

Cautiously, Albus let everyone else introduce themselves. The boy stared at each and every one with cold indifference. He did not seem to recognize any of the names.

Perhaps he had amnesia?

Even an American wizard had heard of the Headmaster of Hogwarts as well as the famous Auror Mad-eye Moody.

The boy's gaze hardened. "While helpful, that was not my question. _Who _are you to _me_?"

Albus stood, surprised. What other adolescent would he have heard such a philosophical but probing question from? That was a question from the battle-hardened, the paranoid . . .

_Who are _you_, young man?_

The Order remained silent. They did not know how to respond to that either. Such information in times like these was sensitive . . .

"To you?" Albus murmured, frowning. "To you we are unwilling hosts, young man. This place is hidden for a reason and we would very much like to know how you found it."

The boy frowned at them. Albus made quick eye contact with Snape, briefly lowering his Occlumency shields.

_Do you recognize him?  
><em>

Snape shook his head imperceptibly. Albus glanced back at the boy, eyes softened.

_Most likely not acquainted with the enemy then and certainly no Death Eater._

"It seems," the boy muttered, frowning, "that I am just as much a mystery to you as you are to me."

Albus' eyes' twinkled. "Indeed. Might I ask you name now that you know ours? It helps to solve mysteries."

The boy raised an eyebrow. "Nico. Nico di Angelo."

Albus discreetly looked at the other occupants in the room, silently questioning. Did they recognize the name? The boy obviously did not have amnesia; he was too sure for that. So perhaps Nico di Angelo was not a wizard? But no, a muggle could not bypass the Fidelis Charm.

A muggle could not open a drawer that wizards could not. A muggle could not destroy a priceless heirloom so expertly. It was impossible. Another moment of silence passed before Nico spoke again.

"Where am I?"

A gasp broke out from all the other wizards in witches in the room. Albus took this in calmly if not a little shocked. So the boy had not intentionally bypassed the Charm; curious. _Mystery indeed, young man, one which even you do not understand the full extent._

"I am afraid I cannot tell you that, young man."

Albus could not give the name or else he would be giving the intruder indefinite access. He needed to be cautious.

The boy looked annoyed.

"Country? Continent? You can't give me that, old man? Unless," he added coldly, "you are too senile to remember."

Albus smiled as the rest of the Order members grumbled about the boy's disrespect.

"You are in London, England, Mr. di Angelo. Where are you from?"

Nico studied him suspiciously.

"America."

Albus had thought as much. Accents can be very revealing.

"Would you mind telling us what you are doing here then, Nico? This is a very secure location and not many people could find it."

Nico snorted derisively and replied, "It's obviously not very secure if I can get in without even knowing it."

Albus frowned at the answer. _He completely avoided the question._

_It seems a different approach is in order_. He reached into his robes and pulled out the damaged locket.

The Order members looked at it with interest.

Albus looked expectantly at the boy. A flash of recognition crossed his face until he schooled his expression once again.

_He has been interrogated before._

"Then why did you destroy this locket? We found it next to you after you fell unconscious."

Nico glowered at him but said nothing, causing the Order members to mutter amongst themselves.

"He's guilty of something, Albus."

Albus ignored Alastor's comment, still pinpointing his gaze on the boy who looked very annoyed with himself.

"Mr. di Angelo?" he prompted.

Nico snapped out of his thoughts and glared at Albus. The Order members and their leader stepped back, wary at the ferocity of the gaze.

"It's none of your business, Mr. Dumbledore. Now if you will allow me to leave—"

"Nonsense!" Alastor snapped, hobbling forward.

"Alastor!" Albus warned, trying to get the man to stop.

Alastor took no heed of the comment, continuing forward to the boy at a considerable speed. He reached into his robes and pulled out a tiny vial full of clear liquid—Albus's eyes widened. He quickly reached for his wand, warning Alastor against his actions.

The members in the back realized what the Auror was about to do and ran forward with their wands in hands. But they did not want to stun their ally. Nico just watched with a puzzled expression, his instincts screaming at him to back away.

Looking back, he'd wished he'd listened.

With the swiftness of a cobra, Alastor's hand lunged forward and grabbed hold of Nico's mouth, holding it open. Nico, surprised, froze for a second until he saw the bottle of liquid heading for his exposed mouth.

Nico struggled to get out of the man's grip but was too weak from his previous excursion. The Order members froze in horror as the bottle was unwillingly administered to Nico. Silence—terrible, morbid silence—reigned as the contents of the bottle forced their way into Nico's mouth.

Nico tried to spit it out but Alastor growled, "Swallow!"

He proceeded to clamp the boy's mouth shut and hold his head up towards the ceiling.

Eventually they heard the dramatic gulp of the swallow. Pleased, Alastor let go of the boy. But before he could ask any questions, Albus reprimanded the paranoid wizard.

"Alastor! What were you thinking? You know how dangerous the truth serum can be—"

"We need answers, Albus! These are suspicious times. You know that as well as I do."

"_Still_, Mad-eye. You didn't have to pour anything down the poor boy's throat! You have _no_ sense of morality."

"Molly, Alastor; that is enough!" Albus roared.

Silence descended upon the group, like a vacuum had sucked every word, every noise.

It was only broken by the coughing of one truth-serum-administered boy.

"What did you do to me?" Nico asked, coughing repeatedly.

No one spoke, too afraid that they would be on the receiving end of Albus's rage. But then Alastor snapped out of his trance.

"Who are you?" he barked, looming over Nico menacingly.

"Alastor! You may not—"

"Albus, it's already been administered. We might as well press it to our advantage," was the voice of reason through one Severus Snape.

Albus stared at him for a few lingering seconds before nodding once, though very reluctantly. He did not like the thought that the child before them may be subjected to invasion of privacy. As Albus looked at Nico, the boy was red and clammy from trying to keep his mouth shut.

Albus was inwardly impressed that he managed to hold out this long.

"It is alright, Mr. di Angelo. We will not make you answer anything you do not want to. But would you please cooperate?"

It was the only thing that Albus could do now that Alastor had done this. He might have effectively ruined their one chance to gain the boy's trust. Nico glared threateningly at them, but nodded jerkily. He was still trying to resist Alastor's question.

With a sigh, Albus repeated, "What is your name?"

"Nico di Angelo," was the instantaneous reply.

Albus observed Nico's expression as he began to realize the true power of the truth serum. Fear pooled in his dark eyes. Albus felt wrong by doing this—invading Nico's privacy. But what was done was done.

"Where are you from?"

They had already procured this information, but it would be reassuring to have it revealed under the truth serum.

"The United States of America."

Albus was pleased. Nico had been telling the truth so far.

"How did you find this place?"

Nico visibly bristled, glowering at the people in the room.

"I was somehow transported right outside of this place."

Nico looked sour at the revelation. The Order members looked on with interest. Albus was intrigued. But Alastor was a little less accepting.

"Are you a wizard?" he growled, throwing the Statute of Secrecy out the window.

"Alastor!"

"Moody!"

"Of course he's a wizard, you dunderhead! How else would he have gotten in—"

"No."

A stunned silence fell on the group. They looked at the strange boy with utter shock and astonishment. If he wasn't a wizard, then how did he get in?

Even Albus was at a loss for words. Nico bubbled with rage inside, cursing the truth serum as well as the paranoid idiot that gave it to him.

If he didn't have this _truth potion_ making him tell the real honest truth then he could have made something up. An elaborate hoax while trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

"Then how the hell did you get in?" Sirius asked, breaking everyone out of their trance.

Nico stayed silent for a while. His scowled in pain as he attempted to fight off the veritaserum. A few minutes passed as Nico became more and more sickly. His cheeks were red with strain and his limbs fidgeted in random spasms.

At last, he collapsed back onto the oval table, unconscious once more.


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't know what woke him. Maybe it was the splash of cold air against his skin. Or maybe it was his hunger pains, minimal though they were when contrasted against the situation he'd been unceremoniously dumped into.

Raven-colored orbs opened and took in his surroundings.

He was no longer in what he assumed to be the kitchen. He was in a bedroom, lying on a soft, rectangular mattress, held inches above the ground by four metal pegs.

Two other identical beds—empty and made up—were across from him. The dark, windowless walls surrounded him on all fours with only a small rectangular door for the entrance as well as the exit. He felt trapped. Caged.

(An animal; not worth enough to be given attention.)

He shot up, grimacing at the pains in his stomach. He was hungry. _Damn_, he was hungry. But he'd have to grin and bear it like he always did. Hunger was not an unusual companion.

He took a step forward and winced at the wood's loud creaking noise. The wood was old and decrepit, just like everything else in the room. He frowned, examining the dark surface. Testing the waters, he took a step forward, then another.

Pleased that the wood no longer creaked, he walked to the door at a regular pace. He needed to get rid of the piece of ripped soul and be on his way. He didn't want anything to do with these insane wizards.

He just wanted to get home.

A thought striking him, he paused, leaving his foot hovering over the floor. He reached out with his awareness, looking for the ripped soul. He needed to know where his target was after all. Alarmed when he felt nothing, he extended his reach.

His heart beat raced as he thought that he might have been wrong the first time. But that wouldn't have happened right? A feeling was a feeling.

His qualms went down slightly as he felt a sliver of agony wash over his body. But it was very weak. Maybe the amount of ripped soul wasn't large enough to make an impact?

But no, one size fit all.

No matter how much of ripped soul was in an object, the same amount of pain was radiated every time. So why was this so much weaker? Were his powers not working right? Troubled, he reached for the door and carelessly yanked it open.

He needed to find that piece fast. He been practicing with his powers and getting stronger ever since after the War. His powers rivaled Percy's now, even with his cousin's Achilles' Curse. So they couldn't just stop _working_.

_(It was all he had.)_

Ignoring the loud creak that sounded from the old wooden door, he hurriedly stepped out of the room.

But his advance was met with trouble. Cold fury erupted in Nico when he realized who the perpetrator standing outside his door was. It was that man that poured that damn truth potion down Nico's throat without his consent.

He looked like a poorly put together jigsaw puzzle, assembled as if the assembler had not cared about correctness and left the pieces joined together in frustration. Mismatched eyes glowered at him, one dark (the natural one) and the other a fake electric-blue eye. Nico was undaunted. He could bring this man to his knees.

"What are you doing, boy?" the man growled, his fingers enclosing around a wooden staff as tall as he. He took a threatening step forward, his wooden peg leg gently tapping the floor. Nico's eyes were attracted to the missing chunk of his nose and the grey, grizzled mop of hair. _Great. Another Hephaestus._

"Don't ignore me," he sneered mockingly, a twisted, ugly expression, "I could always shove another potion down your throat."

Fury broke across his face. Nico took a deep breath.

(Calm down.)

He had some other business to attend to and while he may be angry at this wizard, some things came before revenge.

(A lesson he'd learned the hard way.)

He tried to move around the wizard, but the man wouldn't allow it.

"You're not going anywhere. Now go back in there before I blast you."

Nico sneered. "You look like you've been on the receiving end of those blasts more times than you've been the dealer."

A maniacal gleam stirred in the man's eye.

But before he could so much as raise his staff, Nico was already barreling over him in a graceful flip. He landed on his feet with naught a sound and stole a quick look over his shoulder.

The man was stunned temporarily, but he was quickly moving out of it.

It was now or never.

Nico dashed down the deserted hallway, past the old musty doors leading into other rooms. Old antiques cluttered the ground near the edges of the wall and Nico had to focus more than he'd like on jumping over them. As he ran, he searched for that faint feeling of pain.

Once he grasped at it, he started pinpointing it, jumping over an umbrella in the way. But soon he realized it was coming from behind him. He screeched to a halt, his shoe soles digging into the old wooden floor.

Cursing, he turned around and doubled back, once again jumping over the umbrella obstructing the narrow hallway. His stomach rolled and moaned, his head echoing the feelings like a mime. He viciously tried to ignore it. _Not now. _

He heard the man hobbling somewhere in front of him and knew he had to act fast. Following the trail, he threw open the door to the right and quickly stepped into the room. The door slammed loudly against the wall, no doubt attracting the man.

Nico cursed his own stupidity, but kept looking for the source. What he found disappointed him greatly. There were three beds in the medium sized bedroom, but only two were filled. They each framed the walls, once again windowless.

The first occupant was snoring loudly on his or her side, shuffling under the covers. The other occupant wore earmuffs and slept snugly on the other side of the room. But neither of them possessed pieces of ripped soul.

There were faint traces of it on them, though—remnants of their contact with the infected person.

He should have known; that was why the feeling was weaker than it was supposed to be.

The feeling was just amplified traces—evidence that the two people in the room spent a huge amount of time with the infected person.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

And what was worse was that he heard the man scrambling not two yards away in the hallway. He had probably a few seconds before the man located him.

His mood extremely sour, he called to the shadows and grimaced as he shadow travelled out of the apartment building. Not even the cold embrace tweaked his mood.

This was only the beginning to a terrible day.

* * *

><p>"<em>Where is my son?"<em> Hades roared, his face twisting in unbridled rage.

The skeletal servants could do nothing but shiver in terror, having no idea where the young lord could be. Hades stomped about in his throne room, his aura cackling menacingly.

He had been trying to get into contact with Nico for a good half of the day, but every try was to no avail. He tried Iris Messaging the boy, checking graveyards, that demigod camp, everything!

Nothing.

He threw a ball of hellfire at the ghosts huddled in the corner. They scampered from the spot in terror as the hellfire shot sizzled through the palace walls.

With a grunt, Hades snapped his fingers and sent the shadows to fix the wall.

But that did nothing to fix his other problem. If anything happened to the boy, Hades would take care of the offenders himself.

His son—! His only son . . . What if—? No.

_Calm down._

He was better than this; he shouldn't have lost his temper so easily.

But the boy was all he had left of Maria . . . That and he'd come to like Nico, to care for him more than he first had. Hades sighed.

He had to summon _them_ if he wanted to find his son. He looked unnervingly at the two quivering skeletal servants still standing on the opposite side of the room.

"Summon the soul guardians!"

* * *

><p>"The boy is more than he looks, Albus! He has prime physical condition, something that wizards need to start considering."<p>

Albus frowned, but was more intrigued than he let on. So the boy did have some talents if was able to get away from Alastor nonetheless _flip_ over Alastor. But this was grave news.

Somehow, the boy had escaped.

They still didn't know enough about him. All they knew was his name, place of origin, and that he wasn't a wizard. It was most troubling that a muggle got through their elite defense not once but _twice_.

Most troubling indeed. They need to keep an eye on that boy, figure out how security was breached, but that would be impossible if he wasn't here.

"We need to assemble the Guard and send out a search party for the boy. As a muggle, he couldn't have gotten far."

But . . . a feeling of foreboding overtook Albus.

_Is he truly a muggle . . . or something we have never before seen?_

* * *

><p>Nico had landed somewhere in a town. The shadows transported him to a dark alley when he gave no instructions—an alley inundated with rats and mice feasting on trash and old musty bits of food.<p>

Nico made his way out immediately. He had plans on finding out just where he was. The old man had told him London, England but he wasn't so sure to trust what he said or not.

When he emerged from the alley, he saw crowds of people dressed in suits and skirts running along the sidewalk. Some were strolling steadily, others rushing through the throng. He lost count of how many suitcases he saw but he could count the number of buildings.

Some buildings were skyscrapers, though nothing compared to the Empire State Building in New York. The grey-tinted windows reflected the sun's early morning shine on each other, like crystals.

Stores cramped beside the tall buildings were overshadowed by their counterparts.

Nico looked around the crowd once again and, seeing an opening, strolled through. He weaved his way through the crowd, biding his time.

He had no rush to get anywhere, only to get information. Walking next to a tall, black skyscraper, he spotted a newspaper stand. His interest piqued, he wandered over to the miniature cart.

Piles of newspapers were stacked neatly side by side on the table but no one was supervising the stand. Nico stopped in front of it and squinted to read the headlines. But his dyslexia chose to step in at that moment.

The words floated off the page, rearranging themselves in indecipherable gibberish. It took him a good five minutes just to read one word. By then, the crowd was pushing and shoving at his back from the sidewalk, stunting his progress even further.

Vexed, he tried to focus even more, gritting his teeth. He hunched over the newspaper, bringing it an inch or two away from his eyes. Finally after another five minutes, he was able to read the whole article.

He read that the old man was indeed telling the truth. He was in London, England. Nico was about to walk away when a group of numbers caught his eye. He gaped, his eyes slightly bulging in surprise.

How was that possible? No wonder his father hadn't contacted him yet. He _couldn't._ Hades didn't send Nico here. Someone else did.

Because Nico was pretty sure that in the world he came from, it wasn't 1995.

* * *

><p>"How many are you taking with you, Alastor?" Albus asked calmly, staring at the shorter man.<p>

Alastor grinned maniacally and replied, "Seven."

Albus raised his eyebrows but he wasn't surprised. Alastor was a strange and daring fellow. He took risks and relied on himself as well as his allies. That was why he was one of the greatest Aurors that Albus had ever known.

"And how long will you estimate it will take?" the Headmaster of Hogwarts questioned once again.

He had other duties to attend to tonight; he could not lead the Order. None of the Hogwarts professors would be in Headquarters tonight. Lesson plans had to be made. But the most important reason was the matter of choosing a defense teacher.

Albus knew that Cornelius may try to interfere, which was why they needed to pick and choose carefully as well as quickly. It was only a matter of time before the Minister tried to stick a spy in Hogwarts.

As much fun as that would be, Albus did not like how large the chance of that happening was. Cornelius was not in his right mind at the moment.

"It may take an hour or two or a couple of days. It really depends on whether the boy can hide himself and hide himself well."

Albus nodded, considering.

"Very well. Gather the search party and begin immediately."


	4. Chapter 4

It was hours later, in the mid-afternoon, when Nico had found himself on a playground. He couldn't stop in one place, still stewing on his shock and anger at discovering his whereabouts. Who had sent him here? And for what reason? Why couldn't they just leave him alone?

He'd played his part in this sick play!—a play abounding in grief and misery.

It wasn't very smart to stay in the playground, he knew, but after what Nico found out, he really didn't care. Someone had sent him back in time to do something and it may or may not have to do with the ripped souls.

The least the perpetrator could do was explain him or herself. Nico growled under his breath.

_It was always him._

When he had first gotten there, the playground had been deserted. Now it was slightly less empty, but as far as Nico was concerned it was teeming with life. Nico scowled. He wanted peace and quiet, not to hear the loud piercing shouts of some little kids. He clenched his fists as the little hellions, bursting with joy and happiness, swung on a creaking, miniature Mary-Go-Round.

_Annoying little brats. _

(Though sometimes he wished he could regress back to that stage, innocent childhood . . .)

He sat on the edge of the playground, where the rectangular metal borders boxed in the mulch area. The only strange thing that he noticed was the fifteen-year-old boy that came a few minutes earlier.

He sat on one of the swings, spaced out and depressed. There was something off about the boy, but he had too much of a headache to do anything right now.

He was too busy brooding, wasn't he? How . . . _sad. _He settled down on the edge of the playground on his back, face staring up to the sky.

But he had better things to do than go on quests for nameless patrons—his eyes widened.

_What if . . . what if this isn't a quest?_

What if he'd simply fallen into an interdimensional gap or portal or some other instrument of conspiring magic?

The gods usually contacted demigods after all . . .

Horror gripped his thoughts.

_How am I supposed to get back?_

He found himself desperately hoping that this was a quest, praying to the gods that there was a means to an end, a means home . . .

Two boys—the lanky, depressed one from earlier and a walrus—running for their lives toward the road up ahead snapped Nico out of his reverie. Nico blinked in mild surprise as they dashed away.

Well . . . the thin figure was the one doing the running. The walrus of a boy ran in slow motion, but his panting, however, was in "fast-forward." Though he supposed it was unfair to dub the boy a walrus. His size was due more to muscle than fat . . .

Nico snorted and slowly stood up to stretch. Walrus was oddly fitting, however, especially for one feeling vindictive.

His eyes followed the boys as their figures became tinier and tinier from the distance. They were trampling over the grass in a mad race to get to the . . . road.

Were they late for dinner?

A pang wrenched through Nico's chest. His breathing hitched before he settled back into a pattern. His stomach growled. He still hadn't gotten anything to eat. He felt weaker still . . .

The playground had emptied during his snooze and the sky was overcast and grey, like it was going to storm. Ah. Perhaps that was why everyone left.

Grumbling, he followed their lead, scuttling quickly over the overgrown weeds across the open field. He forced his legs to step up the pace as he scrambled uphill. _Tired . . . so tired . . . _

_(Where, exactly, was he supposed to go?)_

Panting slightly, he finally reached the dark road.

_D__ark__? It's too early._

He threw another glance at the sky and was deeply surprised to find it very dark. It was like he was in the Underworld.

He furrowed his brows. Night shouldn't have come so early. It was unnatural—especially in the middle of summer. And now that Nico stopped to think about it, he realized that it was entirely too cold for the aforementioned season.

The temperature seemed fit for early winter but not mid-summer. He frowned. Something unnatural was _definitely_ going on here.

Ice began gathering rapidly on the ground over wilting flowers and grass. A sheet spread from the distance, moving like a thick, speedy fog. Confused, he made his way to the tunnel for cover.

(And before the water could reach him.)

The mouth of the tunnel took the shape of an arch, like a concrete frown echoing his sentiments of the storm. The top reached to the ten foot mark, quite a margin from where the top of Nico's head lay. The dim light extended as far as a few inches into the tunnel but that was it. It was instincts from there on out.

Nico took a suspicious step forward, testing the waters. He took another and another until finally he sighed. He was being silly. He resumed a regular walking pace.

A deep yelp invaded the silence. Wind rushed by, loud and forceful.

_Who . . .?_

Nico quickened his pace. He halted near the right edge of the moist wall, trying to concentrate, but the shuffles and whispers of movement weren't exactly helping.

He shouldn't grope around in this mysterious situation. For all he knew, a monster had found him. He stiffened at the thought and instinctually pulled out his sword.

The three-foot-long sword of Stygian Iron, black as nightmare, appeared in his outstretched hand. He gripped it tightly, to reassure himself it was there; he still couldn't see very well. But before he could recall the shadows to be his eyes, he heard another yell.

"_Expecto Patronum!"_

Nico was just about to creep forward when a bright white light burst forth out of thin air. He jumped back as the whole tunnel erupted with a mass of blinding white. He briefly closed his eyes, opening them when the light faded somewhat, consolidating into a huge stag.

If he had been an admirer of art, he would have called it beautiful. The stag emanated joy and happiness.

Nico felt suffocated.

He stepped back further, until his back was pressed against the wall, his shirt dampening from the water.

The stag-shaped light leapt forward, prancing from right to left in a zigzag manner. But what it attacked left Nico completely stunned.

Floating in the midst of a tattered black cloak was a _soul guardian_. What was its business here?

Nico watched, frozen as the stag jumped onto the tall, thin figure, going straight for its head where a single hole resided for sucking emotions and souls.

A shuffle sounded to his right and Nico saw another one floating horizontally over the walrus teen from earlier, draining his happiness and joy in the form of a white, feathery mist.

Was he the one that yelled? No, that teen was too out of it. He looked sick and dazed—and not to mention fear-induced. Nico couldn't blame him, though.

Mortals couldn't see them after all . . . But . . . If that was the case . . .

Then who shouted? A demigod? No, they wouldn't shout some kind of Latin, they'd chant Greek. Nico's head was swimming.

His stomach growled. His head hurt. The pains rebounded wildly and he gritted his teeth. _Why now . . . ?_

Nico shut out the pain and looked back up, catching a glimpse of the skinny boy from earlier clutching a stick in front of the sole soul guardian, focused intensely on directing his stag. Was he a demigod? But . . . no demigod would use a stick. And then that light he was controlling . . .

That wasn't a typical power for his kind unless . . . _Oh_.

Magic. The boy was a wizard.

_Here's my proof, _Nico thought, scowling.

But how could he see the soul guardian? He was a mortal. Perhaps Hecate's magic allowed him?

That still didn't explain why the soul guardians were here. They resided in the Underworld, tormentors to those confined to the fields of Punishment. Though there was only a small portion of them, they were immensely loyal creatures both to Hades and his children.

Hades surmised that rest of them may be on the mortal plane living as Rogues and had ordered the killing of them if any were to be found. If what Nico thought was true, he had just confirmed his father's theory.

The stag was doing a number on the Rogue, but it would not be enough to kill it. Happiness was a brilliant weapon against these beings, but it wasn't a killing weapon.

(Good thing. He didn't have any happiness to spare.)

He sent his sword back into the shadows. He felt strangely cold without it, like a part of him was missing.

With a grunt, he called forth two small but deadly knifes—created from the same material as his sword.

They materialized instantly in both of his hands, ready to throw. Ignoring his exhaustion and pain, he took a step back and aimed. He squinted at his unmoving target, taking a nice long look at its central killing point—the core. It moved a little. _Dammit; I need to eat. _He blinked until it stood still.

He flicked his wrist and away the knife zoomed. It flipped over continuously in the air until hitting its target dead on. Nico sighed in relief as the soul guardian exploded into dust with a bone chilling scream, the knife with it. He hadn't been sure his aim would be true. His arms shook.

He turned around to face the left side of the dark tunnel. He took aim and fired.

The knife hit its target, embedding itself in the Rogue's exposed chest. It barely had time to shriek before it disintegrated from view. He slumped against the wall, hands on his knees, like someone had dropped Atlas' burden on his shoulder; he was so exhausted from that one little thing . . . so _weak_.

_Fuck, I need food._

"What . . .? How did you . . . ? I thought—" a masculine voice whispered in an awe-filled voice.

Alarmed, Nico turned around to face the figure shrouded in the darkness of distance, slowly dragging his feet forth. He'd forgotten all about him.

His head pounded warningly.

The boy's emerald eyes stared at him in amazement. Nico stared back at him indifferently, silent.

"How did you do that? I've never been able to destroy a dementor."

Nico surveyed him, making note of his messy black hair and small, skinny build. _Not a threat, well other than the magic part_. He was wearing clothes three sizes too big, probably from the walrus boy to the right who still trembled on the floor, whimpering silently.

Ignoring the boy's previous questions, he queried, "Who are you?"

The boy blinked. "What? You don't know? Well maybe it's because you can't see me . . .," he muttered, stepping into a patch of light.

The only peculiar thing that Nico didn't notice before was an ugly, red lightning bolt-shaped scar in the corner of his head. Just staring at the scar, Nico felt it—the feeling of complete and absolute agony.

_Abomination. Monster. Parasite_.

He winced at the sudden feeling as the boy rubbed his scar. His eyes narrowed dangerously. It was him. The boy was the piece of soul Nico had felt in that building earlier.

He eyed the boy menacingly. The boy did the same but held up his stick. If he was wary before, he was suspicious now—highly suspicious.

"Who are you?" he demanded, defiance smoldering in his emerald orbs.

"Are you a Death Eater? Are you working with Voldemort?"

Nico raised an eyebrow, sending the boy a cold glance.

"What the Hades are you talking about?"

The boy narrowed his eyes.

"Don't play dumb with me," the boy growled, "I'll repeat it one more time. Are you a death eater?"

_Death eater? _Why would he want to eat death? He snorted, picturing himself trying to devour Thanatos. The boy bristled at the sound; the term seemed to have some significance to the boy—a bad significance. His stomach protested again, singing for nourishment. He hid his pained grimace.

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about—"

"_Harry!_ Dear boy, are you alright? _I'm going to kill Mundungus Fletcher!"_

An old lady with a string bag in hand and strands of grizzled-gray hair slipping out of her hairnet hurried forth, frazzled and worry-stricken. Her half-filled slippers slapped jarringly against the ground as she hustled to catch up with the newly identified 'Harry.'

The boy lowered his wand and blinked in utter surprise.

"Mrs. Figg? What are you—?"

She interrupted him, "Don't put that wand away! They might come back!"

Harry blinked again, looking from his wand to 'Mrs. Figg' with an expression of utter bewilderment. Nico observed warily.

"But—"

"Do it just in case!" she interrupted again. She didn't spare Nico or the walrus whimpering on the floor a glance.

"But Mrs. Figg—" Harry tried again, but the old woman would have none of it.

"Why are you protesting—?"

"_Because the dementors are dead!"_

Harry looked angry with himself after he yelled, clamping his jaw shut. Mrs. Figg was speechless. Nico took a step back, eyes looking longingly at the exit of the tunnel. He probably wouldn't get far. He needed food. He was too weak to shadow travel. His hands trembled and he shivered, sweat beading on his forehead.

Mrs. Figg looked back up at him with awe stretched out on her worn features.

"They told me you were powerful but I didn't know you were this powerful."

Harry looked annoyed. His expression buzzed with questions and confusion.

"They? Who are 'they'? And I didn't kill them. _He_ did!"

Now it was Mrs. Figg's turn to look baffled.

"Who?"

For the first time that night, Mrs. Figg averted her gaze from Harry and looked directly at Nico.

"You? Who are you?"

She turned to Harry and whispered, "Is he a muggle?"

Nico sighed. He didn't know what a muggle was and he didn't know what was going on, though he assumed that the other two present thought the soul guardians to be called 'dementors.'

Harry once again raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"No, he couldn't be. He killed them. And how do you know about muggles? Are you a witch?" he questioned, but Nico heard a slight anger bubbling underneath.

Mrs. Figg gave him a strange look.

"I'm a squib, Harry. I can't do an ounce of magic to save my life! Something that Mundungus Fletcher knows full well—"

"You're a—and nobody thought to tell me anything? That's just bloody brilliant."

_I know the feeling. _Nico grunted.

Harry glared at him before turning his attention back to the elderly lady grumbling about a Mundungus Fletcher. The two were side by side against the wall opposite to Nico. If he wanted to leave, now would be a good time to do it. If only he could shadow travel . . . He needed food. Could this boy help him . . .? Nico viciously scrapped the thought. No, he didn't need any help. He could help himself.

His attention turned back to the two who were oblivious to the walrus still quivering on the floor. Nico quietly padded to the huge teen while Harry and Mrs. Figg talked about something or another.

He bent down and poked the large boy. The walrus groaned loudly. Nico stared at him, nonplussed. He would be fine.

He stood back up, noticing his heavy limbs. Damn he didn't feel so good . . . But he'd gone on in worse circumstances than this. Another loud groan sounded from the boy on the floor. He hoped his stomach wouldn't join in.

Conversation behind him had halted as the pair was reminded that they had company.

"Oh yeah, I forgot about Dudley," Harry muttered.

Mrs. Figg frowned disapprovingly at 'Dudley' on the floor.

"Get up, lazy bones! Harry, you need to get him out of here. The boy looks like he's about to faint. Merlin knows what your aunt and uncle are going to do . . ."

Nico's eyes gleamed. Was Harry an orphan?

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, sighing.

He walked forward to the heap on the floor and picked up his left arm. Mrs. Figg was about to follow but a loud, popping noise froze her mid-step. Her face boiled in rage and she stormed down the opposite end of the tunnel.

Nico heard some shouts and shuffles, but chose to ignore it; it wasn't his concern. Turning his attention back to Harry, he saw the skinny boy trying to haul the walrus up, but only succeeded in dropping Dudley. Nico watched as Harry went through Trial and Error, a smirk catching onto the corners of his lips.

Finally, he offered, "Need some help?"

_As long as I get to raid your pantry at least . . ._

Harry looked at Nico gratefully as replied, "I'd appreciate it, thanks."

He seemed to have forgotten all earlier suspicion. But things were never as they seemed. Perhaps he had changed his views when talking to that woman?

With a nod, Nico grabbed the other arm and together they hauled up the unconscious boy. Nico grunted, trying to hide the dizziness and nausea creeping along his body.

Slinging Dudley's right arm over his shoulder, he waited for Harry to do the same.

Once that was done, they were off.

* * *

><p>"Duddy-kins? <em>Dudley, oh my—!<em> Vernon—Vernon, come quick! _Vernon_!"

Nico and Harry had successfully dragged Dudley back to his parents. He knew the parents would be frightened, but he underestimated to what degree.

His mother—a woman with a short, blonde mane and a body as skinny as a rail—had come rushing out onto the porch at the first sound. Her terrified eyes swept right over Nico and Harry without a second glance as she took in her son's less than healthy appearance.

After shrieking in terror, she assumingly called for her husband. She pried Dudley out of Nico's and Harry's grasp, leaving both of them to wonder how such a skinny woman could carry a heavy weight like that.

_Perhaps she eats three meals a day, _Nico thought bitterly. His stomach was doing flips and twirls now.

Harry stepped inside. The door shut before Nico could go in and perhaps sneak some food. He grimaced as the hunger pains multiplied. He collapsed onto the floor of the porch steps, carefully avoiding the steps.

There was a distinct lack of chairs and surplus of . . . flowers.

His eyes had just barely swept over the homogenous neighborhood before a yawn lulled them to close. He had used too much energy today without gaining any—

Nico was asleep before he even finished that thought.


	5. Chapter 5

"Has Nico di Angelo been found yet?" Albus asked. Alastor's fake eye whizzed over him, lips curling into an irritated frown.

"No, not yet. He's a slippery one," he muttered.

Albus frowned slightly. This was taking an unusually long time. Nico di Angelo . . . _he is certainly an interesting person—_

_Crash! _Albus' heart skipped a beat.

The noise came from the back of his office—the Floo system.

"Excuse me, Alastor."

Alastor obliged and stood with his staff clutched tightly in his hands. His knuckles were white; his body tense. Was there an attack?

The jolly professor reappeared within his field of vision, his face sheet-white.

Alastor immediately narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"What happened?" he barked.

Albus opened his mouth, his eyes grave.

"I am afraid Harry was just attacked by dementors. The ministry is trying to expel him for underage wizardry. I sent them a letter for a trial but it will not be easy to persuade them. We must bring Harry to headquarters now."

* * *

><p>Nico was awakened by a painful kick to his stomach. His eyes snapped open and his stomach lurched. He fought not to throw up. A death glare formed on his face.<p>

"What the Hades_?"_ he growled, looking for the perpetrator.

But the second he found them, he wished he hadn't. It was the man with the eye patch and his squadron of stick wielders. Nico glowered at them all, slowly creeping to the left of the porch. He was still too weak . . .

But before he could take another step, the man raised his staff at him threateningly.

"Don't move another inch," he barked.

Reluctantly, Nico complied.

And when the girl with purple hair stepped forward, waving her wand and yelling a bunch of Latin, he couldn't do anything to avoid the red light sent his way.

Nico stared at it, paralyzed. He felt like a spectator of the events, dazed and confused. He couldn't move; it was like his body was in a straitjacket. The realization of what it was hit him only as the light did. Power pushed at his chest and forced him back, slamming him against the wall. His head throbbed like he'd been hit with a huge stone.

He fell into a black void.

* * *

><p>"Young man, would you oblige an old man's curiosity and explain how you infiltrated this location?"<p>

This question again. They'd repeated it at least twenty times, although in different context. But even so, Nico refused to speak. He kept his mouth closed and glared, silently fuming, at the assembled group before him.

"Why were you at Harry's house?"

They'd knocked him out, kidnapped him, and brought him back to the very place that he'd _mistakenly_ come upon.

Everything always happened to _him_.

He was in some kind of meeting room. The room was bland and grey, like some sort of jail cell. That was certainly what it felt like. He was the prisoner and they were his jailers. Dust and grime decorated the walls like scars, blending together to create a striking portrait of slashes and blemishes. It was a paradox—

"Young man?"

—a trail of tears so beautiful it was terrible. The tears, invisible to all but him (_how lucky the innocent were_) sparkled in the light, blue and crystalline . . . but a plague was trapped within the beauty, poisoning the seams, the surface, everything.

"Mr. di Angelo?" His eyes snapped to the old man's blue orbs. Blue, crystal tears . . . His head hurt and he averted his eyes.

He sat at a table, framed on all sides by suspicious wizards and witches.

They were clumped together around the table, trying to crowd his personal space as much as possible. Nico could count the amount of freckles on the old man to his right.

The old man that had led the interrogation before he escaped was the only one standing. He and the man with the eye patch—that he had found out was called 'Moody'—were the lead interrogators tonight. He also overheard the old man's name: Dumbledore.

"Boy, you will tell us," Moody growled, shoving his face in Nico's line of sight.

He was tied up to the point that his head couldn't turn, even if he really wanted it to. Nico kept his mouth shut, wishing he had a gag. That would have been his excuse.

Even as his attention was focused on the assembly of magical mortals before him, he couldn't help but wonder how he was going to get out of here and back to his own time. He could only imagine Percy and Annabeth leading a search party.

"_Look in the graveyards! The memorials! The Underworld! The Hades Cabin! McDonalds . . ."_

Nico smiled bitterly. They were the only ones that cared. (Though he supposed that was his own fault . . .)

After firing more unanswered questions, the wizards finally gave up. The old man was haggard and exhausted.

The twinkle in his eye had disappeared a long time ago. He sighed and called it a day.

"We should have asked Harry first. Alastor, would you please escort Mr. di Angelo to his room?"

The name piqued Nico's interest, overriding his reluctance of being led by Moody. So the boy shared some connection to these people. _Well . . . they__'__re all wizards within the same area . . ._

That statement meant the boy was here, as well. He could work on trying to get the ripped soul out of him. _Once I get my strength back of course . . ._

"Come on."

Moody grabbed his shoulder and shoved him forward. Nico walked through the semi-familiar hallway with Moody on his tail until they came upon a dark door. Moody forced the door open, letting it hit the wall with a loud crash.

Out of the corner of his eye, Nico saw Moody point his staff at Nico and mutter something. The ropes disappeared; Nico immediately massaged his itchy arms.

Just before the man shut the door he said, "This room has been charmed so that you cannot escape. If you try, I will know."

Nico scowled.

* * *

><p>Just before Albus left, he called Harry to talk to him. As soon as Albus saw the boy, a pang of regret entered his heart. Harry looked worn, as if an England-sized weight had been shoved on his shoulders.<p>

Even so, there was still fire in his eyes. To think he was going to ignore the boy.

"Harry, Mrs. Figg told me you destroyed the dementors. Is this true?"

If it was, then Harry had performed a remarkable feat. In all his years, Albus had never seen a wizard able to kill those soul sucking creatures. Even_ he_ couldn't kill one. This could be an astonishing testament to the abilities of the Boy-Who-Lived if true.

And the thought of every Light wizard possessing such an ability, the ability to fend off personifications of evil, Voldemort's prized weapons of death . . . It was certainly an appealing thought.

Harry's reaction said otherwise. His shoulders sagged in exasperation and he shook his head.

"No, Professor. Someone else killed them."

Intrigued, Dumbledore leaned forward. Even though they were in the spacious meeting room of the Order, curiosity knew no bounds. _This person would be a remarkable ally._

"Who, my boy?"

Harry hesitated. His expression turned uneasy but nonetheless, he knew Harry will answer him.

"Well, I don't know actually. It was this boy . . ."

Harry described him. Albus felt a certain foreboding feeling erupt at the description. He knew a person that matched that physique . . .

"Professor?"

Albus snapped out of his wonderings and smiled at Harry.

"Yes, Harry?"

Harry's eyes darkened with suspicion and caution.

"When the boy saw my scar, it began to hurt. At first I thought he may have a connection to Voldemort but then I saw that he was in pain, too. What do you think happened?"

Oh, Albus thought something alright. As strange as Harry's account was, it confirmed Albus' suspicion. There was only one boy like that, shrouded in mystery.

Nico di Angelo.

* * *

><p>Nico woke up disorientated and groggy. That red spell left an aftertaste of pain in his chest. He cursed silently, pitifully. His vision swam. There was a ball inside him, as small as a golf ball but as heavy as a bowling ball. It moved and moved and moved, rolling everywhere, inflicting pain and more pain.<p>

His stomach howled like a banshee, electrifying agony biting and blistering. He panted roughly, eyes closed, waiting for it to pass. But it didn't. It suffocated him, wrapped him in a blanket of pain and squeezed ever tighter; it was a permanent collar, stuck to him as if by an unbreakable chemical bond. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, bent over. His forehead touched his knees. His clothes—_jeans_—grew damp.

_(Stop . . . please stop . . .)_

He heard footsteps coming. His stomach unleashed a volcanic eruption, grumbling audibly, and Cerberus rode on top, the harbinger of hell. Eyes as red as blood, teeth as sharp as swords—he recoiled as the door slowly opened, struggling to stand up. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain as best as he could. But he could hardly move.

He glared at the newcomer as he stepped inside, slowly unraveling from his curled position. An avalanche of light poured in and he squinted. He sent a desperate plea to the gods, to his father, to take away the pain.

Nothing happened.

The agony remained.

The old man, Dumbledore, dressed in a horrible combination of pink and orange robes with a navy blue rim closed the door behind him, blue eyes taking in Nico's appearance, analyzing him, judging him. Nico tried to squash the pain and sat straighter, hoping to look intimidating. His face was certainly screwed into enough of a knot to convey a negative image.

Nico scrutinized the old wizard. An aura of power wafted off the man, moving through the air like a breeze had entered the room, carrying it far and wide. Nico was unaffected. This man was an ant compared to the gods.

(_Especially Zeus when he's angry . . .)_

He waited for the man to speak.

"Good morning, Nico. Harry told me you bested the dementors sent to attack him; that you destroyed them with little to no effort. That is no ordinary feat, especially if you are a muggle—which I have no doubt that you are not. Muggles cannot see dementors. So I will ask again—are you of magical origins?"

Nico stiffened.

"No, I am not a wizard," he stated quietly. A match of swordplay must have been playing out in his stomach, organs with lives of their own fighting and slashing; he bore the result. He held back a growl and tried to school his expression.

"Then how did you destroy the dementors?" the old man asked.

Nico paused, narrowing his eyes. Information was everything in this world.

_Why is he asking so __much__ of me?_

"I stuck a knife through it," he responded carefully. "The soul guardians are as mortal as anyone else. They bleed; they die."

His bluntness zoomed the air and bound the old man's mouth like masking tape. The tension between the two was palpable.

"Yes, but Harry told me they incinerated on the spot. And is that name what you know dementors by?"

"Yes."

Dumbledore looked thoughtful, eyeing the young boy in front of him. The boy was definitely guarded, not divulging any information. But one thing was for sure—Nico di Angelo was powerful. Especially if he could kill a dementor, a feat no wizard had achieved.

But he claimed he was not a wizard. So what could he be? A muggle with powers? _That is unheard of and impossible. (_But . . . wasn't anything possible with magic?) Or was his previous claim true? Did he really kill a dementor with muggle weapons?

Even if he was a muggle, however, that did not explain how he could see those creatures.

Perhaps he was a Squib but unaware of his heritage?

Dumbledore grew more and more baffled by the second. Nico saw the puzzled gears cranking out directly on his face. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.

Finally Dumbledore asked, "Have you ever heard of a Lord Voldemort?"

His mind recognized the term just barely but Nico couldn't remember where. His stomach whispered pleas to him, _food, food . . ._ He ignored it.

"Who?"

Dumbledore surprised him by smiling. Nico was even more confused.

_What__'__s going on . . .? This is making my head hurt._

(_Though that wasn__'__t the only factor. ._ . he thought ruefully.)

Albus Dumbledore was pleased. He saw genuine confusion on the boy's face. Either the boy was telling the truth or he was a very good actor. Either way, Dumbledore wanted him close.

Someone powerful enough to breach the Fidelis Charm without even realizing it, destroy a sacred heirloom, and kill dementors was an asset to either side, magical or not. And Dumbledore was pretty sure the boy was not involved with the wizarding world.

His theory was that the boy was a squib, only he did not know.

Even though he wanted to know the boy's secrets, he shall respect his privacy for now. He had an offer for Nico di Angelo—an offer that may or may not help Harry. _Because I cannot this year._

"Mr. di Angelo, would you like to attend Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry?"

Instead of excitement he expected, Dumbledore received another reaction.

"Huh?"

Hogwarts? He furrowed his eyebrows. It was certainly a strange name for a school (he would have laughed at the name in different circumstances) or anything really . . . but why was he being invited? A magic school was a magic school—a school where Nico wouldn't be able to do squat. He was a demigod, not a wizard.

"I am the Headmaster of Hogwarts, where magic is taught, and I am extending an invitation for you to attend."

"I'm not a wizard. I can't do magic," Nico deadpanned. _Stop wasting my time._

Dumbledore pursed his lips.

"Ah, that is a problem. Then perhaps you can be our guest?"

Nico narrowed his eyes. _What does he want from me?_

"You would merely observe the classes," Dumbledore continued. "You would not have to participate in classes and you would have freedoms that students do not."

Nico still felt like he was missing something—

"What do you want from me?"

His voice was ice and Dumbledore was caught within his snare.

_(His stomach . . . His stomach was a roaring furnace with nothing to feed itself with. How was it sustaining? Was it feeding off his organs? His intestines? Or perhaps his sanity . . .) _

Dumbledore flinched. "Young man, I am simply offering you an opportunity; never would I—"

"_Stop._"

Albus stopped in mid-sentence, surprised.

"Do not play games with me. It will not end well for you."

Was that a threat? Albus furrowed his eyes, shivering at the similarity between this young man and another he knew years ago . . .

_A child threatening me . . . a mere child. And yet I am fearful. Who is he? _Deep in his heart, he wanted to ask, _what was he?_

"Now I will ask again: what do you want from me?" His head pounded, his stomach ached and _gods . . . I need food. _

The old man sobered, like Nico had told him a dog had died and he couldn't save it.

Nico watched him harshly. The silence was almost deafening.

"I admit that I have a purpose for this request but it is not by any means a nefarious request. I am only one person and there is only so much I can do," he paused and looked straight at Nico. It was unsettling. Nico tried not to fidget.

"Mr. di Angelo, I am asking you to keep an eye on Harry. He has been marked by Lord Voldemort, a dark wizard aiming to kill him. But, sadly, the wizarding community does not believe in his return. Our minister, a person similar to an American President, has been doing everything in his power to shun Harry and unfortunately I am powerless to stop it. Will you accept this offer?"

The word 'return' caught Nico's attention. Return from what? His suspicions increased tenfold.

This Voldemort might be the origin of the ripped pieces of soul . . .

That would explain its presence on Harry. And if that was the case, this wizard was attempting to cheat death. _Even so, why should I risk my neck in a conflict I have nothing to do with?_

The room suddenly felt ten degrees colder.

"Why should I?" Nico retorted. "You have not done anything for me. You've done much more _to _me. That's not a very good technique for trying to win over allies."

Albus felt desperation clawing at the edges of his mind. Ashamed though he was for the treatment this boy had been put through on his orders, he had a compelling need to keep this boy close, under watch. _That is shameful in itself. But this is war._

"What if I were to offer you something in return? Compensation if you will, added onto my request. I formally apologize for all the wrongs that my fellow friends and supporters have committed against you. You do not need to accept my apology, but I would greatly appreciate if you would accept my offer."

Nico sneered at him. "Apologies are shortcuts, old man. They are empty promises. How do I know you're not lying to me? How do I know you're sincere?" He narrowed his eyes, trying to hide a wince. "Nothing short of begging on your knees would convince me."

The old man surprised him, shocked him even, by standing up and crouching on the floor. He got down on his knees and looked up beseechingly. Nico froze. _What . . . why is he doing this? I wasn__'__t serious._

Why did he _want_ Nico so much? No one ever wanted him.

It made him feel uncomfortable.

"You can see how much I would value your presence Mr. di Angelo. I ask again, will you accept my offer?"

Nico opened his mouth but nothing came out. He was shocked. He was unsettled. His eyes were wide and he'd never felt so awkward in his life. This wasn't supposed to happen! He was supposed to have been rejected . . . but . . . did he really want that?

He took a deep breath, swallowing the wave of pain pulsating throughout his body. He was tired. He couldn't deal with this shit.

"Mr. di Angelo?"

Nico's attention snapped back to the old man who was still on the floor. What . . . what was he supposed to say?

Maybe he should just accept. He could always weasel his way out of it later. _No. No! I__'__ve done that too much already . . . No more empty promises._

But . . . he wasn't thinking right. He needed food. By the gods he needed food. He had taken much more pain worse than this but he wasn't in his right mind. _What . . . is happening to me . . . ?_

". . . I will accept on one condition."

The old man glowed. Smiling, he asked, "What is your condition?"

Nico knew he would sound silly saying this but it was suddenly the most important thing in the world.

"Food. You feed me."

The old man blinked at him, puzzled. Nico ignored it. His stomach rumbled audibly.

"Ah . . . of course. I shall ask Molly to whip you up a meal. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. di Angelo. I appreciate this gesture."

He left.


	6. Chapter 6

He was in the library. An inferno raged on the walls, dust springing from the sanguine paint like mini volcanic eruptions of ash. It made the room look old and unused, but the halfway-pushed in chairs told another story. Sunlight filtered through the windows, illuminating the rows and rows of books. They glittered like jewels, as if the sun had vomited a rainbow of gold, encasing all of the books in a sparkling varnish. As far as Nico was concerned, he was in between two houses from _Deck the Halls_, each battling to literally outshine the other. An opened book sat in front of him, detailing the reign and history of the supposed Dark Lord of the wizarding world.

He wouldn't normally choose a library as a sanctuary (he was more likely to choose a dark corner of a deserted alleyway) but it seemed to be the only room in the entire apartment where he could find a little bit of solace and . . . no people. . . even if temporary. _Thank the gods these people aren't nerds._

"Who are you?"

_Spoke too soon. _

The girl had an intelligent look about her—crisp and clean. Her clothes were impeccably smooth and her hair, although it was bushy and could pass for the Empire State Building, was tucked into a neat ponytail. She was attractive but Annabeth easily schooled her in exoticism.

She was a simple beauty—glittering brown hair and eyes were what one observed at a single glance but then that glance extended outward, taking a tour on the subtle curves of her slender body, eyes resting upon the angular structure of her face. She had high cheekbones, innocent, wide-set eyes and thin, arched eyebrows that gave her a look of immeasurable curiosity.

She didn't seem to be aware of herself, of her own femininity, choosing to show the world her bookish personality. She didn't fill the room when she entered; she didn't have Annabeth's _intensity. _Nonetheless, she radiated confidence in her five-foot space bubble. She stood straight, her prominent chin held up high, as her brown eyes devoured his ruffled appearance, curious and . . . guarded.

(She would be stupid if she wasn't. After all—stranger danger.)

"Does British society have differing view on politeness or isn't it rude not to introduce yourself before demanding who the other is?"

She colored. Nico saw a flash of steel pass over her face.

"I'm sorry; you're right. That was rude. I'm Hermione Granger and you are . . . ?"

". . . Not interested," he finished, giving her a blasé look. She blinked.

"Excuse me? You are the one who pointed out etiquette."

"Yes but I didn't say _I _followed it did I?" Nico deadpanned.

He didn't like her kind of people—pushy, arrogant, know-it-alls. She probably got all 100's or A's or whatever the hell meant full marks on whatever the hell the wizards took. Damn. He was awfully moody today.

She frowned. "No, you didn't but I don't even know you. What did I do to warrant your . . . behavior?"

"Nothing," Nico replied, "I just don't feel like talking."

"Well, you're talking right now."

"Yes and I'm about to throw up in three . . ."

She looked at him funny as he leaned forward.

" . . . Two . . ."

He grabbed the small, black trashcan under the table. She began to look weary and backed up.

" . . . One . . ."

He heard receding footsteps as he ducked his head into the trashcan.

"Now." He looked up to an empty room. _Good. She's gone._

He dropped the trashcan in a languid fashion and slumped in his seat, smirking. _Who knew it was so fun to mess with wizards._

It had been two days since he'd struck a deal with that old man. And true to his word, he kept Nico fed. The first time he ate, he couldn't finish it all and nearly retched. But the next few times it was damn satisfying to his empty stomach. He'd spent most of the time avoiding the other inhabitants and had managed it . . . until now. He sighed. He knew he would have to meet them sooner or later but . . . he didn't have to today. Or the next day. Or the next day after that. Or—the cycle continued. And even when he was faced with the unavoidable confrontation, he still wouldn't act.

He didn't know the rules or how to play this game, yet the players were still sticking him out there because they were desperate enough. They wanted to win.

But he wanted to be a benchwarmer.

People, being social . . . It was never his strength. He was a loner. Hell, he was born from shadows. It was practically his nature to be alone. His father was a loner, confined to the extent of the Underworld since eternity and only now resurfacing from all that forced isolation. It was kind of in the family.

"—he's right in there."

He went rigid. Damn. He hadn't expected her to get someone because he was "sick." Glaring at the quickly advancing shadows, he shadow-travelled to his room. It was like taking a cold shower, refreshing and rejuvenating but at the same time shocking and brutal. He closed his eyes, rubbing them. His hands were cold, sending shivers down his back. He scowled at them.

_ Stop dicking around and go out there._

But he couldn't. He wouldn't. He wasn't ready. He didn't know them enough. He had to gather more information.

But in the end, he knew those were flimsy excuses. The truth hurt too much to admit.

* * *

><p>Something wasn't right.<p>

He walked forward cautiously. The room was dark and dreary, like black fog had rolled in and hadn't cleared up since.

Nico raised his eyebrows, looking the shadowy room over. He poked the walls . . . and recoiled as it responded to his touch like a blanket. The area that he'd poked refilled. Where the hell was he? The last thing he remembered was falling asleep . . . something in his mind clicked.

_ Is this my dreamscape? _

_. . .Wow, I'm a very gloomy person._

If it was, he wouldn't be here unless a god or goddess wanted to meet with him. He was sure he wouldn't be conscious during his dreams unless they were demigod dreams or contact dreams. This was supposedly the latter.

At that thought he felt a tremendous sense of relief. This was a quest. He wasn't trapped.

_There was a way home. An end. Security. Rest._

He almost jumped when a rush of air blasted past him, like a rocket took off inches from his face. He whipped around and saw a figure standing a few yards away. Smooth olive skin, like his, encompassed the figure's body; it was the body of a bodybuilder—packed with muscle. The figure was tall, but not overly so, and wore a sense of death and decay like a cloak, daring anyone to challenge him. He emitted power in volumes, so tremendous in amount that it distorted the air around him. He shimmered like a beacon, an angel . . . a god.

He had sharp features and straight eyebrows that would have given him an expression of constant nonchalance, if not for his eyes. His intense, inky-black orbs bore down into Nico's, angry and fiery like they were trying to smash him into smithereens.

It was his father.

The only god that gave a shit about him (which didn't mean much).

Hades' shoulder-length obsidian hair wasn't the least affected by the mini tornado in which he arrived and nor was his soul-threaded, silk robes which hung over him like a curtain. Had he been a son of Aphrodite, he might have been jealous. But he was neither the son of the Greek fashionista or _fabulous._ As many people had informed him, he would be categorized as a 'Fashion Assassin.'

"Father," Nico greeted, dipping his head.

Hades stared at him a moment longer before reciprocating the greeting, "Son."

Nico almost fidgeted under his father's gaze.

(Or was he really a father? When had he been there for him?)

Nico felt so damn _awkward_ in Hade's presence_. _His father just stood there like a statue, his face blank and still as angry eyes devoured him (his soul, it seemed). Alarm bells rang in his head, his stomach, throughout his entire body. As each bell jingled, it seemed like it scraped over a blackboard each and every time, producing this ear-curdling noise that made him want to cringe and ball his eyes out.

Uneasiness gripped his movements and he became aware of the startling gap between father and son, the insurmountable abyss. One a mortal, the other a god. A family they were not. His_ family_ was dead.

Swallowing, "You called for me?"

That was exactly the wrong thing to say. Hades' expression hardened, eyes freezing into black ice. _Way to go, Braindead._

"I did not," Hades ground out through gritted teeth.

Nico's peered at him in confusion. Then . . . why . . .?

"You were sucked into a portal."

Nico's eyes widened. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Horror paraded around his thoughts, merciless and deadly.

He swallowed a frog-sized lump, wanting to deny his father's words, deny everything.

Deny his worst fear.

_How . . . will I get home?_

Unbridled ferocity clouded the room, visible and palpable. The fog condensed, angry and black, hardening into obsidian rock that could slice through a skyscraper in a single swipe. They now stood in a labyrinth of black stone and shadows, the obsidian walls of the maze seemingly formed by cooling seconds after it was thrown. Its jagged, curved edges surrounded Nico like a circle of spears.

(One false step meant death.)

_It wasn't fair._

_It. _

_Wasn't._

_Fair._

_No one_ gave a damn about what _he _wanted.

_No one._

"I cannot bring you back. You are stuck_."_

Nico flinched. His mouth suddenly felt dry. He'd been depressed. He'd felt despair. But he had always had all of nature's maladies escaping Pandora's Box, _that hope was gone._

"_However," _the god continued. "The portal through which you went is merely a portal that transports through time. You have not left this dimension. You may have to wait it out. Unless you find help. If you do wait it out, you will remain outside the time's domain. Such is the magic of the portals."

_Help. _Nico stilled. _Magic? Wizards? Would—would they be able to—? _

But before he could finish the thought, his dreamscape began to fade. His father flickered, yet his voice did not.

"My soul guardians will act as messengers from now on. Contacting you took an enormous amount of energy. Do not expect any others. Farewell, my son."

And the world went black.

* * *

><p>"Nico? Nico, dear, its time for breakfast! Hurry up!"<p>

Nico snapped awake. Food . . . He stood up sluggishly, pushed on only by the reward. Food and energy. Then everything caught up with him.

The meeting. His father. _Stuck._ His mind reeled.

He took a shuddering breath and descended the stairs to the kitchen, trying to make haste.

* * *

><p>He wished he hadn't made haste. He wished he'd waited and been a lazy bum. Because when he entered through the door, it was like a stage light shined on him from above and a microphone was shoved into his hands. Many different eyes stared at him, some curious, others quizzical, but most distrusting.<p>

_ . . . I should have waited._

Everyone in the organization had to be there for breakfast this morning. The table was full, only one slot left at the very edge, in between a red-headed girl and a red-headed boy—siblings, he bet.

"Good morning, Nico! What are you waiting for? Come on in and eat," Mrs. Weasley greeted with a smile as she herself sat down. She was a stout woman, a little too plump in bodyweight, but she had a good heart. Nico envied her and her family.

"Good morning, Mrs. Weasley," he replied as he sat down between the two siblings. Even though they gave him a wide berth, their eyes transcended that distance and stared at him like he was the rarest animal in a zoo.

He picked up the silverware beside the plate and hurriedly dug into the stack of pancakes, his posture tense like a wild animal in the midst of humans. He felt eyes on him from every angle, combining with the terrible, awkward silence to create an invisible sword—one that slashed him to pieces before he even knew what was happening. And even once he knew, he couldn't do anything to stop it.

He clutched his silverware tightly as he cut the pancakes, the noise of metal dinging against the plate ringing out like a loud fart in a silent room. He ate, coiled and jumpy, feeling those eyes on him all the while. It felt like the whole of New York was watching him. His teeth clenched.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. _"Yes?"_ he snapped, angry dark eyes staring at the tens of thousands of eyes stalking his every move.

The perpetrators jumped and quickly averted their gazes, muttering multiple apologies. He gave a terse nod of acknowledgement and finished the rest of his pancakes. Muffled conversation reached his ears but he ignored it in favor of finishing. He needed to get out of here.

"So . . . My name's Ron. Er, what's yours?"

The boy was tall and gangly—he could tell even when the boy was sitting down—with a face resembling a weasel. His eyebrows were almost nonexistent, giving him a look of perpetual surprise and the blue, wide-set eyes radiated a feeling of naivety and innocence. The one feature that popped out to him was the red hair that lay over the boy's head like a large, neon umbrella. Nico just stared at the boy, raising a single eyebrow. He looked sincere enough, but Nico never trusted appearances.

"Nico di Angelo."

Ron attempted to smile, but it came out pained and awkward. Nico looked away. Everywhere he went, silence and awkwardness dogged his footsteps like a shadow.

"Nico? We met before when you saved my life so I want to thank you for that . . . I'm Harry by the way, if you didn't get my name earlier." _So I was right. He is here._

Nico nodded towards him, "You're welcome." Then his mouth closed like a door slammed shut. Harry's expression looked like it took a dip in a blender. It was convolution of distress and irritation. Did he want Nico to start a conversation with him? _Hell no. I didn't sign up for this._

"So, ah, what exactly are you, erm, doing here?" Harry asked, slowly and unsurely. A gasp sounded to his right.

_"Harry!"_ the girl from yesterday, Hermione Granger, sounded abashed. Nico looked skeptically at Harry.

"What am I doing here? Simple, I'm eating breakfast like you are. Is that so hard to comprehend?" he responded dryly.

Muffled laughter came from two red-headed twins at the end of the table, both thin, tall and elven in appearance. Their eyebrows turned sharply downward at the curve of the face, giving them an air of mischievousness. Harry, on the other hand, wasn't so amused.

"No," he said with barely restrained frustration, "I mean—what are you doing in Headquarters? I thought this place was for the Order of—uh, I mean certain people only."

Nico deadpanned at him. "You think I don't know the name of the organization I have joined?" Harry, Ron, Hermione, the twins—all the children in fact—gaped at him.

"W-What? You mean that you're in the Order of the Phoenix? But how? I thought there was an age restriction!"

Nico smirked. "If not that, then I suppose it's a power restriction."

They glared at him. Nico stood up abruptly, chair legs screeching over the tile and looked towards Mrs. Weasley with a cool expression. "Thank you for breakfast," he said. "It was delicious."

Then he left.

* * *

><p>Silence reigned in the kitchen. The members where staring at the wooden door, where Nico had left so suddenly.<p>

"Well, then," Ginny scoffed. "We won't have to worry about being rude in the future to him since he's practically invited us to be_._"

Mrs. Weasley shushed her. "He's had a hard few days, Ginny. You shouldn't say such things about him, especially behind his back!"

"But Mum—"

"I don't want to hear it, young lady. Be polite." She waved her wand and piled up all the dishes in the sink. With another swish, they began washing themselves. The food vanished from the table, much to Ron's sorrow.

"Wait! I wasn't done!"

"Well everyone else is," the woman snapped, bustling to the sink to supervise her spell.

"Hmm, I like him Gred," one of the red-headed twins, George, announced.

"Me too, Forge. Should we induct him into our wondrous band of pranksters?" the other, Fred, asked, grinning.

"My, my, what an _excellent_ idea."

"More like a sinister idea," Ron muttered. Hermione looked at him sternly. "Don't judge him yet, Ron. You don't really know him. And you," she looked pointedly at Harry, "why did you ask what he was doing here? That's something I would expect from _Ron!_ Honestly, you two have no manners."

He sent her a surprised look. "That's a bit out there for you, don't you think? You were just badmouthing 'the dratted, impolite boy from the library' yesterday! Fix your own manners before you insult our—"

"—nonexistent ones," Hermione finished.

Likewise, Harry muttered, "Well excuse me for exercising a bit of caution."

Hermione glanced at him sharply. "There's a fine line between caution and rudeness, Harry. Besides, didn't you hear what Mrs. Wealsey said? He recently went through some hard times."

Ron gaped at her. "Hermione, _why_ are you defending that bloody wanker? Look at all of us! _We're_ going through some tough times but you don't see any of us acting like the rear end of a donkey."

"_Enough!" _Mrs. Weasley cut in. "I don't want to hear your arguing so early in the morning—"

She broke off as a chilling cold wafted into the room and gripped them like invisible hands. Hopelessness and sorrow, helplessness and anger radiated around the room, bouncing off the walls and into their gaping mouths like a racquetball. Their heads were dunked into buckets of icy, murky water. Fear slithered into their hearts, its grip slimy and wet. Was it . . . ? No, it couldn't be. This apartment was safeguarded; they were safe! But the feeling was the same . . .

Ice spread over the plants on the bar; they withered and decayed. Sheets of it spread over the floor, the walls, even the sink where the dishes were still washing themselves. The room turned into a winter wonderland, though much more sinister and black. Was it possible dementors were here? No, no, it couldn't be! _They were safe from dangers outside._ As soon as that collective thought was completed, however, black, withered beings appeared from thin air.

The screams and yells started.

* * *

><p>Nico bolted straight up from his chair in the library as soon as he heard a shrill, little girl-esque scream. He instantly knew it was Ron. He jumped up and dashed through the way back to the kitchen, through the antique-cluttered hallway, past empty, dilapidated rooms, and over the umbrella that always seemed to be tipped over. When he reached the kitchen door, he kicked it down and blasted inside.<p>

He met the most interesting sight.

Everyone was huddled behind a knocked over breakfast table in the far corner of the room in the midst of an ice paradise. It was everywhere—on the table, the walls, the ground, even the people themselves! Mrs. Weasley held a trembling hand out from behind the table, wand in hand, yelling a familiar phrase of Latin. But all that sprung from her wand was a faint, white wisp of smoke. He backed up against the wall and analyzed the situation.

He learned long ago not to go into a fight blind.

He turned his attention to the alleged attackers . . . and almost laughed. The familiar gaunt, gangly figures of the soul guardians met his eyes. Tattered black cloaks covered their stick-like limbs, each the color of tar. He glimpsed the holes in the middle of their faces as they floated slowly towards the group of wizards huddling for their lives behind the table.

Come to think of it . . . he thought Harry knew how to handle them. That spell that Mrs. Weasley was chanting . . . Harry had made short work of it when he was being attacked. Why didn't he cast it now? His eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.

That was a riddle for a later time, though, he decided. Neither party noticed that he had entered the room, even though he had made quite an entrance (kicking down the door and all; that will be a bitch to explain away later). His breath came out visible and he blinked, realizing that he couldn't feel the cold. At least that proved that the three soul guardians in front of him were not Rogues, meaning that his father . . . had . . . sent them . . . _Ah. This is what he meant. _A twinge of sadness travelled along with the thought but he put away his disappointment. He _would _find a way to get home.

He took a silent step forward, but despite the lack of noise, his posture commanded attention. Time froze as wizards and soul guardians alike turned towards his majestic figure. He looked like a prince who had full command and understanding of the situation before him, yet the wizards dreaded his presence. They knew he wasn't a wizard. What if the dementors gave him the Kiss before they could do anything?

The soul guardians registered his presence and felt his aura. They knew who it was. And much to the wizards' surprise, they floated forward . . . and bowed, their "heads" touching the floor.

_"Master Nico," _they breathed in ancient Greek, "_we have orders from Master Hades to bring you back to him_."

Harry, Ron, Hermione and all huddled behind the table were mystified. The language they didn't recognize but . . . it sounded like a human tongue. And who were they speaking to? _Who were they bowing to!_

Nico nodded blankly to the soul guardians and replied, _"My father has revoked those orders. He wishes you back in his domain. He said you will act as messengers from now on."_

Nico felt a wave of relief crash over his body as he spoke the ancient tongue. The language felt familiar and safe.

Ron squeaked, "What? What the bloody hell is going on?"

_ "Shut up, Ron!"_ Hermione shushed, heart flapping in her chest like it had wings. Harry just stood there, silent and shocked. Mrs. Weasley's hands shook. Ginny gaped. The twins were saucer-eyed.

The cloaked beings studied Nico for a moment.

Finally, they bowed once more and intoned, "_Yes, Master Nico," _vanishing into thin air.

Nico almost sighed in sadness; he didn't mind their familiar presence in an unfamiliar territory.

He considered them friends. They were familiar. They'd never betray him.

He stiffened. The room was too silent and he felt eyes staring holes into his back. His eyes narrowed and he whipped around.

"_Yes_?" he challenged icily.

The wizards flinched and looked away. He left, ignoring the glances of terrified awe thrown at his back.

He realized that his actions today may lead them to question who or what he was but he couldn't help that. Orders were orders and if he absolutely had to, he could make up a lie about himself.

He walked back to his room.

* * *

><p>"What the <em>bloody hell <em>was that?" Ron breathed shakily. Hermione shuddered, remembering Nico's stance. _What was that? Why did they bow to them? What . . . what is he?_

"The dementors _bowed_ to him. And then, then he made them disappear! I thought Dumbledore said he wasn't a wizard so how the hell do you explain _that_?"

Mrs. Weasley didn't even reproach him for language. She looked shaken as she stood up from her post on the floor.

"Mum?" Ginny asked quietly. "Are you alright?" She didn't look all right as she bustled out the kitchen.

"If Nico hadn't been there," Hermione whispered, "what would have happened?"

Silence. They didn't want to admit they didn't know because it would feel like an insult to Mrs. Weasley. After all, she did all she could but . . . _it wasn't enough, _Harry thought bitterly. He could've—_should've—_stepped in but he was afraid that he'd doubly screw up his chances of going back to Hogwarts. _Coward._

"Hold on," Hermione muttered. "Why would the dementors be here?" Ron snorted in disbelief. "'_Why?' _Of all questions, you ask '_why?'_ What about 'how?' How did they get in here? This place is supposed to be safe!"

"I was getting to that," Hermione snapped. "But think about it. Who would have the resources, even if we don't want to believe it, to get passed the Fidelis charm and command dementors?"

Ron gasped. "Bloody hell! You're right, Hermione. It's Nico! Didn't you hear Dumbledore the other day? He said Nico broke into this place but he didn't even know it _and _you just saw his stunt with the bloody dementors! What if he did all of this on purpose? Do you . . . do you think that he—"

"—could be some sort of overlord to them? Yes, actually," Harry frowned.

"_What_?" Hermione hissed. "No! That's not who I meant! I meant—"

Harry growled, interrupting her. "_Of course_! No wonder he could destroy them so easily! He can control them so it'd be bloody easy to tell them to destroy themselves."

"Which means that he could have sent them after you and then 'killed' them to gain his way into this organization and our trust," Ginny spoke with wide eyes.

"No," Hermione insisted desperately, "That doesn't make sense!"

"It makes perfect sense!" Ron yelled. "Especially . . ." He paled. "Especially if he's really working for—"

"Voldemort," Harry ground out furiously. Everyone flinched and the room fell silent once more.

Hermione shook her head, the gears in her mind turning furiously. _No, it's not logical. Nico didn't even have any interest in Harry and . . . didn't they bring Nico back here by force? It just doesn't add up . . ._

Harry was furious. He'd been played _again_. He clenched his fists and stood up. He turned on his heel and stomped towards Nico's room. But a hand flew out and grabbed his right arm, stopping him.

"Harry, wait! Don't you think we should take this to Dumbledore and see what he thinks? What if you're wrong?" Hermione pleaded, desperately trying to convince him. _Reason, _she thought_, see reason! _She sent a searching glance all around but the only ones who seemed unsure were the twins.

Harry hesitated, his anger draining. Then he remembered how Dumbledore had virtually ignored him all summer. His rage climbed up a bar.

"It's not like he cares; he didn't tell me anything so why should I tell him about this? Tell me, Hermione. I can take care of this by myself. It happened to _me_, after all."

He took another step forward, shrugging off Hermione's hand. He heard nothing behind him and quickened his pace. He was sick and tired of people toying with him, _using_ him.

He kicked open Nico's door, foregoing the fact that he didn't even have a confrontation plan. He just _had_ to vent out his anger on someone. But before he could another step, something sharp slid gently against his neck. He froze as it pressed deeper, his mind reeling in shock.

"Don't take another step."


	7. Chapter 7

The minute Nico heard his door creaking open he bounded out of bed, calling forth his sword.

The smooth hilt slid into his outstretched hand just as he froze at the edge of the door case. He breathed sparsely, adrenaline dancing through his veins. Apprehension thudded through him, playing him like a guitar, but an inkling of excitement persisted.

His sword mirrored the progress of the door, rising up inch by inch. As soon as the shadowy outline of a person stepped into his room, he lashed out, grabbing the intruder's shoulder.

His sword pressed against the thin neck of the frozen invader. He faintly recalled growling out a warning, too caught up in the blind fury that someone had trespassed into his room.

He forced himself to take a deep breath and shoved all of the red, scalding anger into the recesses of his mind. He was well aware that he shouldn't make this situation worse than it already was. Anger didn't get anyone anywhere; it was a lesson he'd learned the hard way. He ushered the person forward into his room and gently nudged the door shut behind them.

_Besides . . . it's not my room . . . per se. _

He led the person to the center of the room, pushing harshly with the palm of his empty hand. Sword creeping up the trespasser's neck, Nico demanded, "What are _you_ doing in here?"

It was always a bad idea to let the intruder in on the fact that their identity was unknown. It gave the impression that their captor was still vulnerable, no matter who had the upper hand. It gave leverage that Nico didn't like to hand out.

Nico's grip on his sword slackened a little once he felt the infiltrator's pulse race faster and faster—a side effect of human skin against Stygian Iron. He didn't want to kill them before justice was served.

He did have morals.

(No matter how dark or evil anyone thought him to be. _Fucktards._)

"You tricked me. You _used_ me. And I can't believe I _fell _for it!"

It was Harry. Nico almost flinched.

_Wha . . .? _He didn't do anything. Why was he being accused? _He didn't do anything. _He dropped his sword. It went back to the shadows.

_What the fuck is he talking about?_

A black hole formed in the pit of his stomach. The anger imprisoned in the recesses of his mind stirred.

(_A victim . . . _He was a victim.)

"Why the _hell_ would I do that? I don't even know you."

Harry recoiled at the pain in Nico's voice. It sounded genuine but how was he supposed to know the truth anymore? Small gestures, even the most innocent and honest ones, had been revealed as selfish ever since Voldemort's rebirth.

He didn't know what to believe anymore. One part of him yearned to trust his friends and family, but another was slightly suspicious that they hadn't divulged one scrap of information to him during the summer.

_Why am I being kept in the dark? Ron, Hermione, _everyone_ knows what is going on but me and it _deals_ with me! What the bloody hell do they think I am? A tool they can use whenever they feel like it?_

He understood that he didn't need to know everything, but it would have been a _treasure_ to him if Ron or Hermione (_or even Dumbledore)_ had told him what was happening in the Wizarding World. _It was supposed to be his home. _He clenched his fists.

"_You_ sent them," he sneered; he wasn't afraid. He wasn't weak. _He couldn't be._ But, one part of his mind whispered, maybe that's why they won't let you join the order. They let Nico join after all even though he's manipulating them. It's strength they want, not weakness.

"You sent the dementors after me in that alley and _pretended_ to help me. You 'saved' me from them to gain our trust and then you'd report back to your _Master_."

Nico flinched, eyes wide. How did he know? How did some goddamn wizard in the _past_ know he was . . . he was a . . . traitor? Was he wearing a big, green, neon sign that announced it for all to see but him? Was it his appearance? His attitude? He wanted to rip his hair out. _Why can't I get rid of this taint?_ Wild eyes stared into the obsidian darkness. He traced a face. It was a pretty face, heart-shaped and deceptively innocent. Dark silky waves toppled over it. Warm, black eyes glinted with madness . . . or genius. She smiled at him.

It was Bianca. He felt like a giant had kicked him in the ribs.

"No . . .," Nico whispered. "I'm not a traitor." _I'm not . . . I didn't betray . . . anyone. Or Bianca. _

It was a self-undertaken covert operation. He was supposed to spy on Kronos and trick him into thinking he was loyal because he thought the titan would bring Bianca back. He knew—_he really did; he did!—_that Kronos' promise was a lie. He wasn't a traitor. He wasn't a goddamn traitor.

He sacrificed everything for them. _Bianca_ sacrificed everything for them. And she died trying. She fought their fight, she bought their cause and in return she lost her life.

For all that he did, they treated him like a traitor. Like he was the dirt under their shoe. Like he was darkness of their day. Red, hot malevolence swirled in the back of his mind, attacking the cage in which it was incarcerated.

"Then how do you explain your conversation with the dementors? Probably the very same dementors that attacked me and nearly got me expelled from the _only home_ I've ever known!"

Harry shoved Nico off of him. The boy stumbled a step or two backwards. Nico looked up and Harry's resolve shriveled as glowing orbs of Satan judged him from afar, shaking him to the core.

"You sick bastard," Nico snarled. "I didn't trick or use or do _anything _to you but help you. If I was a damn spy why didn't I let the soul guardians kill you? Better yet, why the fucking hell would I even talk to them while _you _were there? Don't you ever _think?_"

"Of course I think! How else did I discover you for what you are? A bloody _traitor_."

Nico took a deep breath. He tried to calm down. He really did. But this was too far. He clamped his jaw, his eyes hardening. Something inside him snapped. His own resentment shook off its shackles and emerged from its cage.

His fist flew before he even realized it, impacting with cold, soft flesh. There was an anguished cry.

"What the—so now that I know, you're going to kill me? And you call _me_ the sick bastard when _you're_ the sick bastard, bastard!"

Another punch. Another grunt. Another insult. Nico shook with fury.

"Shut. Up. You don't know anything about me. You don't know what I've been through."

Harry cradled his face, backing up. "I don't know what _you've_ been through? You don't know what _I've _been through! Wait, you probably do since Voldemort probably tells his dog _something—_"

He ducked as Nico threw another punch.

"What? No magic? Your master would be ashamed that you're using muggle methods," Harry spat, diving to the left.

(Calm—down—)

Nico threw a flurry of punches and kicks, dancing around Harry as he attempted to throw up a meager defense. It didn't work. Nico shoved him against the wall, black orbs glowing with anger. He saw red and only red.

"Listen up," he growled through clenched teeth. "I would be cleaning your clock right now if I could. But I made an agreement to help your damn, ungrateful ass."

_(And I won't renege another promise.)_

Harry tried to squirm out of his grip, clutching his fists. _So weak!_ He screamed at himself. He felt like he was an ant under a giant's shoe. He tried to throw a punch but Nico caught it and slammed his arms high above him against the wall. He winced at the tingling impact.

"If you had _actually_ thought to think for a moment, you would have realized that I didn't want to be here before I made an agreement with your beloved _Gandalf_. You would have remembered that I escaped when your people first held me, only to be brought back here _by_ them. And lastly, I was questioned under your damn _truth potion_ to which I admitted I _wasn't_ a wizard! Why the Hades would your Voldemort team up with a non-wizard when he_ hates _non-wizards_?_"

Harry's eyes widened. That was true . . . Hermione had told them that, both he and Ron . . . Nico's black orbs looked at him. A horrible, terrible feeling erupted within Harry. _What if I _am _wrong? _Another part of him whispered, What if you are right? Hermione was against it . . . and he generally trusted her judgment because she was one of the few wizards who employed logic—_oh. _

Harry felt sick. He'd just alienated another ally. What the bloody hell was _wrong _with him? Why didn't he think before he threw a temper tantrum? _Why didn't he listen to Hermione? _Guilt welled up in his chest. He swallowed and looked down. He was too embarrassed to look at Nico.

"Right . . . Sorry, mate. It's just with Voldemort rising and this war and—"

"Don't me call 'mate.'" Harry frowned. "Why?"

"Friends don't call each other traitors." Harry flinched, ashamed. "Look," he started, "I'm sorry; I was wrong. It's just this war is getting to me . . .," he murmured.

Nico backed off, releasing Harry's arms.

"War gets to everyone. Especially in clutch time," Nico muttered, staring absently at the ground. He was still pissed off, but he was always pissed off. He snorted sardonically. Nothing new.

Harry peered at him, warily. "You mean you've been in a . . . in a war?" He wracked his brains, trying to think of a current muggle war. He couldn't think of one. _Although . . . is Nico really a muggle? He did command dementors after all._ The suspicion surrounding that hadn't really been lifted. Harry would have asked but . . . it didn't feel right. Not after all of the accusations he'd thrown in Nico's face. _Like what Fudge is doing to me._

"Yes," Nico replied abruptly, features bare. "I've gone down your path before. And suffice to say, I don't want to go down it again."

Harry didn't know why but his anger sparked at that statement. It almost felt as if Nico was _belittling _him.

"Then you know what it's like to have so many people counting on that you just want to give up? To be constantly judged or _monitored_?"

Nico narrowed his eyes at the tone.

Harry just stared at the dark space he assumed Nico to be standing in. _You didn't have to face Voldemort though. Your family wasn't stolen from you before you even had a chance to know them, was it? You're not being publicly ridiculed by the world you thought was your only home, _did you_?_

"No, you don't. You can't possible know," he whispered, choking back angry tears.

Nico stared at the outline of Harry's figure. He clamped his jaw, his eyes hardening.

(Stay—calm—)

"Yes I damn well do. I lost my _sister_ to that war and I didn't even get to tell her goodbye before she was killed! So don't you _dare_ tell me that I don't know, because I do—better than you ever will."

(_Life has ruined me. Don__'__t let it ruin you_.)

Nico turned away. Livid tears streamed down his eyes even as he tried to wipe them off.

His chest twisted and collapsed in on itself, warping and twisting. It was painstaking. . . _Bianca, why? Why did you have to die? You left me all alone._

"_It__'__ll get better, man, just takes time.__"__ Percy._

_(Liar. He doesn__'__t care. He let Bianca die. He never cared!)_

_Annabeth. __"__Toughen up. Thinking on it will get you nowhere.__"_

_(You don__'__t care either. Why keep up the pretenses?)_

_So many more . . . _

Nico wished Bianca was alive. He needed her. His chest constricted. He tried to hold in his tears.

(He tried to breathe freely for once. He failed.)

Even the toughest of the tough break down at some point and when that happened, Nico longed for the loving arms of his family. His sister.

That would never be.

Harry was silent. _He lost his sister . . . ?_

Was he so selfish that he wanted to be the only one that had to suffer? He cringed. Did he take pride in his hardships and losses? Harry felt sick. He looked up from the shadowed floor and towards Nico. The teen had probably suffered worse than Harry and the wizard couldn't believe he'd ignored Nico's attempts to relate.

"I'm sorry," Harry told the other boy, thinking of nothing else to say.

He knew that no one wanted to hear those words; no one wanted to be pitied. But there was nothing else to say.

Nico didn't respond immediately, stunned at the immediate acceptance. He tried to shrug it off but it triggered something . . . A memory.

He remembered Bianca telling him something. He was ten or eleven years old and they were still in the Lotus Hotel. Some guy had just pushed him off of a game he'd loved playing and Nico had tried to punch him . . . Bianca had stopped him.

"_Don't do it, Nico. There's some good in everyone, even the evilest person in the world. He probably had a reason for doing what he did. Maybe. Besides, don't you want to be the bigger person?"_

His anger receded a little.

"Don't apologize. It wasn't your fault."

_(It was mine. I was too weak. Too young. Too __naïve__.)_

He didn't want to think about this anymore.

Silence once again. Harry shuffled nervously in his spot before asking.

"Er—so did you win your . . . war?"

Nico froze, his mind reeling at the amount of information that he'd divulged about himself. He scowled.

_Oh well, what's done is done._

"At the price of many lives."

_Luke. Silena. Beckendorf. Ethan Nakamura—and so many more._

Nico grew silent once more. He didn't want to talk about this anymore. He was . . . tired.

Harry noticed Nico's apt silence and struggled to respect it, despite itching to know more.

He found himself wishing to compare Nico's struggles to his own, no matter how hard he tried to bat the selfish thought away.

"Er—"

Harry didn't have a chance to say anything. The door sprung open, slamming against the wall, letting light flood the previously dark room. It sent a jolt through both boys. Nico squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light. He liked the darkness better.

A bunch of wizards—Order members—rushed in faster than the eye could follow, all pointing their wands at Nico, all throwing suspicious glares toward him.

"Harry, what—"

The speaker—_Hermione?—_gasped. Nico's eyes widened. _Oh shit. His face._

Nico's gaze turned towards the wizards. They all circled around him, with their wands at the ready. They glowered at him and Nico reciprocated the look. He was not in the mood for this.

"Wait! It's not what you think it is—"

"It's exactly what we think it is. Just look at your bruises, Potter," Mad-eye grunted, glaring at Nico.

Nico frowned as Moody hobbled closer. The wizard was almost as paranoid as his father and Nico knew he would not get out of this situation unscathed. The man would likely try the truth potion on him again and secrets might become unwillingly exposed.

If that old man was somewhere within sight, maybe he'd have a chance. But his face was absent from the crowd of wizards.

Nico flipped over the wizards and dodged around Moody, all the while keeping one step ahead of their magic spells. He disappeared around the corner of the hall and shadow travelled back to that alley in London. He'd have to find a way to complete his job another way.

(Another promise broken. . .)

* * *

><p>The very minute Nico disappeared from Twelve Grimmauld Place, Albus Dumbledore arrived at the scene of the crime, wondering what had called him away from his office.<p>

He heard much clamor coming from a room on the right side of the hall. He quickly walked the distance and froze when he realized whose room he was about to step into.

Nico di Angelo.

A feeling of dread welled up within him. What had happened? He cautiously strode inside the room to find fellow members of the Order of the Phoenix all in an uproar with Harry—a bruised Harry;_ curious—_in the center of it.

Nico was nowhere to be found. The dread poked Albus like a hot metal rod. After realizing that no one had noticed his arrival—not even Alastor—Albus raised his voice.

"All of you! Quiet down, please!"

The chatter died down very quickly to Albus' satisfaction, but the amount of angry or depressed faces did not sooth his nerves one bit.

"Now, would someone care to explain what happened?"

The wizards shuffled slightly, looking uneasy and sheepish. Harry was glaring at the ground and Hermione glanced periodically between him and the Boy-Who-Lived. Ron looked flabbergasted.

"Alastor?" he prodded, looking at the ex-Auror.

His expression was grave, but he nodded.

"Nico di Angelo left."

Frowning, Albus inquired, "How did this happen?"

Already, he could sense a misunderstanding and a huge dent in his plans. He sighed.

This was going to be a long year.


	8. Chapter 8

Nico stumbled against the brick wall, breathless. The shadows receded to the black corners of the building, crawling backwards like a flurry of spiders. His eyes stared at the dark wall, glazed and out of focus. He closed them, taking a deep breath. Sweat beaded beneath his palms, pooling on the wall. He watched disinterestedly as a drop turned in a stream. He shook his head and wiped his palms on his shirt. _Where am I?_

Eyes looked around, squinting. The place looked familiar but . . . Dark orbs widened and the cloud of confusion cleared. This . . . this was where he lived (or perhaps "stayed" would be the better term) before his traipse to England. He suddenly felt lighter, as if he was floating. _Maybe . . . maybe I'm back home. Maybe Hades found a way to bring me back home after all. _Then he dropped down hard back to earth. A shiver went down his back and he scowled, furiously shaking his head.

_Damn it. You know what happens when you get your hopes up._

A cursory glance around the space confirmed it. The warehouse was recently constructed and still in use. The walls, dilapidated from years of ignorance in the present, looked newly refurbished in the past. Even in the dark, the room had a distinct color and cheer—unlike the muted puke that enveloped the area when he occupied it. Stacked boxes of all sizes huddled around the walls behind him, sleeping soundly.

A thought struck him: America and England have a time difference. It was early morning here.

A crushing weight descended upon his chest. He felt strangely suffocated within the spacious area. He drew another shuddering breath. Maybe he was hungry. Or maybe he needed to get out of here. There was nothing here for him after all. He staggered to the door and wrenched it open. Darkness welcomed him, possessively hugging everything in its path.

It was pulling him in, luring him into the same despairing monotony. His hands shook. He clenched them by his sides, stashing them in his pockets. He walked out, head bowled over, trying not look into Darkness' tempting gaze. He failed.

A row of other warehouses stood empty, lifeless, in the night. The trees on either side didn't even stir. Nico felt like he was in a nightmarish drawing—the person standing alone under a flickering lamppost, unaware of his impending death.

He shadow travelled to the nearest town.

* * *

><p>It was a ghost town. Street lights flickered dimly as shadows danced in and over houses. The houses themselves were dreary and depressing. No motion characterized the street—not even the wind dipped in for a visit. Nico felt like he was in the Underworld. Even down there, though, at least there was movement.<p>

He walked on, head down, to a dark restaurant a few miles in front. It looked abandoned to him, as if the workers were chased off by an unsanitary health inspection. Mold lined the walls and dust laid over it like a transparent overcoat. Inside, the tables were dulled and scratched, covered with lengthy spider webs elongating from one wall to another. He wondered if it was close to Halloween. He couldn't remember the date since he'd landed in the past.

The crooked sign dangling dangerously over his head read, "Casino Cuisine." He grimaced, memories of sickly sweet candy flashing through his eyes. Casino food . . . He couldn't remember the food in the Lotus Hotel being all that great, but that was a fuzzy memory within his repertoire. He wasn't—

His eyes widened. A surge of hope, so powerful, so _wanted—needed like his own breath—_resonated through his bones. He shook a little on his feet. What if—? _Please, please, please—!_

It was 1995. He was still in the Lotus Hotel. Bianca was still in the Lotus Hotel. She was still alive.

_Alive. Bianca—was—alive._

He could—he could—

His heart threw itself at his ribcage, pounding mercilessly fast. He went rigid, even more so than the ghost town he stood in. _Bianca . . . _As if he suddenly remembered how to move, he dashed, almost stiffly, at the building, calling the shadows to lead him to the Lotus Hotel. He could save her, just like he'd promised. He could make up for Percy's mistake. And this would never happen. Bianca wouldn't be dead. He wouldn't be dead to demigods. And . . . everything. Everything would change.

_For the better._

* * *

><p>There it was.<p>

The Lotus Hotel.

It blinked persuasively at Nico, almost like a seductress eyeing her next victim. The neon flower surrounding the glistening chrome doors almost hurt his eyes as lights flashed on and off in a pattern, truly making it eye-popping within the dead of night.

A lingering doubt proposed the question, _What if everyone's asleep? It's night after all._

Nico ignored it.

Time passed by so slowly that no one probably knew it was night. But . . . if everyone was sleeping . . . he could wait. A tingling feeling ignited his nerves as he briskly walked forward, eyes roving over the doors. He recalled that they had always been open . . . during the day at least. Perhaps they closed during the night to prevent their "guests" from realizing the passage of time. There was no doorman either. His hand snaked around the silver handles glinting under moonlight and gently pulled them open.

He had to stop himself from shaking. He didn't know why he shook—maybe it was from excitement, or maybe it was from fear of being disappointed. He scrapped the thought. _Positive thoughts. She has to be here. _

(She _had_ to.)

He carefully stepped inside, examining the heart of the hotel. He was right; it might as well have been day outside because it certainly was within the hotel. People milled around the place, skipping between games. Clusters of people, girls and boys—young mostly but there were a few adults—surrounded a variety of games. Shouts of success became the music of the lobby. Waitresses dished out snacks and drinks by the dozens, smiling brighter than the neon flower outside. Nico tentatively stepped forward, feeling a little out of place. It was so carefree here.

His chest ached. He ignored it, walking forward, looking for, well, himself.

Or Bianca.

He had stuck close to her when he was here.

No one approached him which, while he found odd, he blamed on the games. They had a certain hypnotic quality designed to lure people in and imprison them, unaware, within the Hotel. He sent a glance over a sleek machine, open, beckoning . . . Nico fought the allure and kept looking. There was a specific haunt of his, a game he played over and over again back when he was here.

It was near a corner, he couldn't remember which but he knew it was near a bend in the wall . . _._ He froze.

He couldn't move. He saw himself, greedily playing the machine without a care in the world.

_Damn_, _I was short . . . _He thought idly, tilting his head to the side. The shaking slowly morphed into constant shivering as he took another step, distinctly aware of the heat of the room, the obnoxious noise level, the sweat beading on his brow. He felt almost . . . nauseous. His stomach swirled. His younger self didn't even notice his approach, filling Nico with a sense of trepidation.

_Where's Bianca?_

He paused and turned, focusing his gaze on the area behind his younger counterpart who—

His heart stopped. The world dulled. Color was wringed from every corner, every crook, except for the splash of beautiful, dark brown silk swaying gently underneath a floppy green hat. His nausea increased, his stomach roared, butterflies slamming against the insides, begging for a way out—

His shivering shifted into outright trembling and a sense of euphoria, like he'd never experienced before, crashed over him like a tsunami overtaking the shore of a tiny beach. He felt dazed, as if he was in a trance, asleep. The world was a grainy backdrop to beauty he had only seen in his memories.

_Bianca. . . _

Then he realized it wasn't a memory.

He took a step forward, stumbling a little, until he was engaged in an all-out run.

"Bianca!" he called, a feeling of clouded desperation swiveling around him like a gust of wind.

She whipped her head around and Nico caught a glimpse of her face—confused black eyes, so much like his, like their father's, peered out into the crowd, searching. Nico locked eyes with that gaze and for moment she was looking right at him—_right at him!—_

Then that moment vanished. She looked away. Nico's radiant smile dampened a little but he continued toward her, hoping, praising the gods—_he was right! She was here!_

He was a foot away, just behind her. He was shocked—and pleased—to realize he was taller than her—her head came up to his shoulders. His arm shook terribly and he tried to steady it. _Why am I shaking? I'm not cold!_ Just the opposite.

_She's right here! Bianca . . ._

He reached out, his hand an inch away, a half-inch, a centimeter—_he touched her. He touched her back! _and then_—_

His hand went straight through.

_No . . ._

He stared, eyes wide, as his arm turned transparent, like a ghost. His arm hovered for a moment, sticking out of Bianca's back like a dagger—

He yanked it back, shuddering at how cold it felt, like his arm, his body was enclosed in ice. His stomach dropped, his head pounded, and he reached out again, with his other arm, so close, he could _see_ his hand landing on her shoulder in his mind's eye—

It passed through, too. Bianca walked forward, completely unaware of his presence—_but_ _he was right behind her—he had made it this far!_

Nico watched her go, and following her, he entwined his leg with hers.

It went right through.

He tried his elbow.

It went right through.

He tried his knee.

It went right through.

He tried his head, his shoulder, his—

_They all went right through._

Panting heavily, but not from exhaustion, he shouted, "Bianca! Bianca, it's me, Nico! Please . . ."

She didn't turn around. She kept going, as if she didn't hear him. Nico stared, his smile forgotten. His lips hung on his face as if only by a string, his eyes painted the blackest of blacks. The hot room turned cold, chilly against his skin.

He clenched his fists.

(_It's not fair.)_

He looked down at himself, startled by how transparent he appeared. It was as if he held a loose three-dimensional body with no color or form. Only the outer contours of his body proved he was there.

(_It's not fair!_)

He trudged up to the wall, eyes glazed over as he seemingly traced the flower design. He scowled; crimson hot rage, _burning and blistering_, his own blood curdling and spitting. He clenched his fists tighter, nails digging painfully into his skin.

(_It's. Not. Fair.)_

His fist flew through the air like a torpedo on its way to enemy territory—fast, furious, deadly—

It went right through.

. . . He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and punched again.

* * *

><p>"Look . . . Ron, Hermione . . . I'm sorry for being such an arse lately. It's just, I dunno . . . none of this seems fair. You two and, hell, everyone else gets here before I do. I'm the last one here and yet I'm the only one who's seen the return of Voldemort! It just doesn't seem <em>right, <em>you know?" Harry gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the sizzling heat striking against his barrier of tranquility.

_Stay calm. For them. _

He wanted to punch something terribly.

_Not them . . . it's not their fault._

"We know," Hermione whispered quietly. Harry almost jumped. "Like we told you earlier, we wanted to tell you everything, but—"

"—Dumbledore wouldn't allow it. I know." He took a deep breath and rubbed he temples. "Why?" he asked. "Why doesn't he want me to know? Haven't I done enough to be considered capable? Who saved the Philosopher's Stone in his_ first year_? I did! Who stopped teenage Voldemort in his second year? I did! Who—you see, don't you? I've done enough to be—I've got the right to know!"

He clenched his fists. Hermione's gaze was sad. Ron stared blankly at the wall. "Exactly, Harry. We know! We completely agree with you. But . . . ultimately it's Dumbledore's decision. Maybe he thinks you're not ready. Or maybe he wants to give you some semblance of a childhood—"

"I'm _more_ than ready!" Harry snarled. "And I never had a childhood, anyway! I—" He stopped as Hermione flinched at his tone.

He looked away. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to snap at you. You . . . you're not the problem. Sorry, Hermione, Ron. . . If I go off on a rampage again, just hit me or something and I'll stop." A vague outline of a smile formed on Hermione's face.

"Okay," she said.

Ron stood up, grinning, and said, "Don't mind if I do," flexing his arm. The corner of Harry's mouth inched up.

"Not now, though, mate. I've already been banged up enough! Though I probably deserved it . . ." he trailed off. The air grew somber and Harry's half-smile fell.

Nico had left him a nasty little reminder on his face and well, his body really. Harry wouldn't stop with the mental barrage and Nico returned the favor—he didn't stop with the physical barrage. Hermione winced, looking at his injuries.

"Yeah," Ron muttered, "Those look bloody painful."

Harry snorted.

He could feel a ghost throbbing in the back of his mind, pulsing from his numbed injuries. Mrs. Weasley had tried to heal them but Harry had refused. He didn't know why but it was sort of satisfying . . . like a battle wound. It sort of proved he wasn't a child—that he could take the pain and whatever the Order was hiding from him. And he'd boycott the healing of his injuries until they did. Honestly, though, he had his doubts that it would work.

"What happened in there, Harry? After you barged into his room—_without cause_," Hermione added, levelling him with an admonishing stare; Harry averted his gaze, "Fred and George came back with Mrs. Weasley and a couple of others. A boggart held them up, apparently, which was why they couldn't get here sooner. This house is a death trap, honestly," she muttered. "You'd think we'd have a safer _safe house._ But anyway, we caught them up on the events, along with your theory, and well, that's when they crashed into the room."

Harry sighed. "Well once I _'barged'_ in there, I accused Nico of working for Voldemort. He . . . he didn't like that so we kind of got into an argument and I ended up losing it both physically and verbally. Nico's not working for Voldemort but . . . I think he's—I dunno the right word but 'damaged' fits."

Harry looked them both in the eyes. "He's been in a war. He said he won but . . . he lost his sister and friends."

He paused. Ron looked shocked. Hermione frowned, muttering, "That's why he's so . . ."

She didn't finish the sentence. Neither Ron nor Harry asked her to.

"What muggle war's gone on lately? I mean there are a lot of suspicious things about him but how could we miss an entire war? Wizards aren't that ignorant . . . are we? And we only have this war going on but it hasn't really turned into a "_war" _war yet."

Hermione pursed her lips, thoughtful. "There are some wars going on but not major and certainly not in America—or at least those involving kids or civilians or . . . I would say he might be European—his name classifies him as Italian at least—but he said he was from America under Veritiserum. So that wouldn't work. You're right, Harry . . . very suspicious. You think he could have been lying?"

Remembering the look in the Nico's eyes . . . Harry shuddered. "No, no chance. He was telling the truth."

"_That's _what you think is suspicious about him?" Ron exclaimed incredulously. "Don't you remember the dementor stunt? He talked with them in another_ language_—and then he banished them. I mean, I get that anyone trying to infiltrate the Order would not do that in front of us, so he couldn't be working for You-Know-Who, but still! That screams suspicious to me!"

Harry shrugged. "Yeah. Certainly tells us he isn't an ordinary squib or whatever he is."

"That language he was speaking in . . . it sounded like Greek but not quite . . . maybe . . . ancient Greek or a similar language? Maybe even a lost one?"

"Or a Dark one," Ron muttered, "How do you even know it was a human language? It could've been Dementoreese or Darkish."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "If such languages existed, I doubt they'd be called that. I know because Nico could speak it—_and_, and," stressing the word at Ron's pointed look, "those were human sounds. I know it sounds stereotypical but I think non-human languages would include sounds that we couldn't make. And besides, I've never heard dementors speak, have you? I thought they communicated telepathically or by some other means."

Harry nodded. "I'm going to have to agree with Hermione on this one, Ron."

Ron shrugged, "Whatever. But hear me out on this: Dementors are dark creatures, right? And they attacked Harry because they probably line up with You-Know-Who. So why can Nico control them and talk to them? You saw they bowed to him, didn't you? He _must_ be their overlord!"

Harry frowned. "Are you trying to say Nico's not human, Ron?"

"Well . . . it'd fit, wouldn't it?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know about that but he's certainly not a wizard or a muggle. We can speculate all we want but unless we ask him or research, we won't know for sure."

Harry inched back to Ron's position on the bed. "Yeah . . . you do that Hermione. We're just going to keep speculating."

Hermione shrugged. "Suit yourself," she said as she made to stand up. "I'm going to see if there's anything in the Black library."

* * *

><p>Albus Dumbledore sat in a chair in the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix with a splitting headache. The explanation had been long and grueling as the Order members tried to shirk the blame.<p>

"Should we search for the boy, Albus?" Alastor asked cautiously.

Albus shook his head.

"No. I'm afraid that would only rile him up as it was our fault for this untimely conflict."

Looking around, he was met with guilt-trodden stares.

Albus continued. "I have no reason to believe the boy has any relation with Voldemort—"

Multiple members flinched at the name.

"—or his followers. There is no need for anything drastic. He was meant to be a fellow member until . . . prejudice, amongst our own ranks, chased him away."

He levelled a heavy glance at Alastor, who met it.

"What would you have done then, Albus, had you come into contact with the information that our _newest member_ had a relationship—a servant-master relationship—with dementors?"

Blue orbs bore down into Alastor's heterochromatic eyes. "I would have asked."

Alastor snorted. "And he would have lied. He'd have played you for a fool!" Albus cocked his head calmly, "He would?" His gaze hardened, like ice freezing inside an opaque container, invisible to all but the one set of eyes looking from the top. "Is speculation a probable cause to chase a potential ally off?"

Alastor's eyes gleamed, his mouth curved downward. "It is if it's not just 'speculation.' That boy spoke to the dementors and commanded them from what Potter and his crew said. That's not speculation. That's fact. You saw Molly's memory! We need to find out what it was—which is why we should look and bring the boy back. What if our enemy found him—if he wasn't with him in the _first _place?"

Albus' expression remained unchanged. "Voldemort has no knowledge of his existence, nor do I believe Mr. di Angelo would agree to side with him. He had no previous knowledge of our world. We are more than likely the only wizards in this entire community that know of his existence, Alastor. Mr. di Angelo does not seem the type to jump sides. When I spoke to him, he wanted nothing more than to leave. "

Another voice entered the discussion, deep and nasally. "Albus, while that may be true, perhaps I should ask around the Dark Lord's circle. Rumors may be circulating about a dementor overlord. We need to know what this boy is so that we will be prepared if he _does_ pose a threat to us in the future. I will be discreet, of course."

Albus's gaze turned to Snape, considering. Alastor scoffed. "Knowledge isn't enough. We can ensure he won't be a threat if we find him, bring him back, and keep him under watch."

"That would be antagonizing him," Minerva interjected, sending a grave look at Alastor. "Certainly if he did not like us already, he would abhor us then! If he turns out to be powerful, shouldn't it be better not to have anything to do with him? Especially if he wanted nothing to do with our affairs in the first place."

"What would happen if we did just that and he got into You-Know-Who's hands? What then?"

"Then Severus would inform us of any information—"

"Nonsense! It's not even a given that Snape would have _access _to that information."

"And isn't the entire point to keep him from enemy hands? Merlin only knows what You-Know-Who would do if he found a boy with the power to control dementors more efficiently than he ever could! It would be an absolute nightmare. We need to get to the boy before _he _does—"

"But how would we even find him—?"

"Well we found him before didn't we?"

"That was only through luck! The Guard was sent to pick up Potter and bring him here when they found the lad literally on Potter's doorstep—"

"Then perhaps we could be that lucky again—"

"Impossible. Relying solely on _luck _is madness!"

"But—"

Albus sighed. This, perhaps, was democracy's greatest weakness—the diversity of opinions destined to clash. He brought his hand up to his throat and muttered the _Sonorous_ spell.

"_Everyone, please_!" he announced, halting all conversation quite effectively. If they did not do so under the magnitude of his voice, they did so under his piercing blue gaze.

"Thank you," he murmured quietly, reversing the spell. "Arguing over this matter will lead us nowhere. Let us compromise." He paused, expecting to hear objection. There was none._ So far._

"Now, I understand that there is a desire to leave Mr. di Angelo alone and another to capture and confine him within our Headquarters. Instead, I propose that Severus monitor Voldemort's movements and if he should find the boy, only then will we act. In the meantime, we will do what we can to prepare ourselves for a potential conflict involving Mr. di Angelo. Agreed?"

"What would be this 'preparation,' Albus?" Snape drawled. "Are you suggesting delegating a reconnaissance mission to select members, focused on gathering information on this boy?"

Albus applauded Severus; it was an excellent idea that even Alastor could not reject. He nodded. "Indeed. This group would assist Severus' attempts to locate the boy so that we are not solely relying on him. Are there any objections?"

A few questions arose to his proposal as well as a few amendments, mostly for safety reasons. It was nothing too drastic. Finally, when they all agreed on a course of action half an hour later (although the majority vote was close; very close), the meeting was adjourned. Alastor left with a sour expression; Albus feared that he would act out of bounds but unfortunately, he could not monitor the former auror. Perhaps he could entrust him with a few demanding tasks to divert his attention? As underhanded as it was, it was necessary. Perhaps he could send Alastor on the recruiting mission with Hagrid and Madame Maxine . . . Not to the giants, however. He could not imagine that Alastor would be courteous to them. However, should Tom's underlings arrive, he could provide suitable backup. He could perhaps even chase them away with the right tactics.

Albus conversed shortly with a few of the older members on his way out, cementing their views in correlation to his.

He held back a sigh, intent on hiding his exhaustion. While he did not like these turn of events, this was the best decision he could make. Maybe with luck the boy would come back. He had made a promise to stay at Hogwarts as a guest but now, Albus was questioning the validity of the promise.

He was tied up with Harry's hearing as well. This would have to wait, unfortunately.

* * *

><p>Nico took shuddering breaths as he walked through the streets of London. He felt sick.<p>

_Why the fuck did I _fall _for that! I should have known. _

He had just left the Lotus Hotel.

_I'll never see her alive again._

Why couldn't he just _accept_ that? Why did he have to make himself suffer?

(Why was he sent back without the ability to make amends? _Why?_)

He didn't care if it led to a paradox in the flow of time or if he would cease to exist. With Bianca alive . . . if she knew what her choices would cause in the future . . . everything would have been different.

He bent over to wretch in the nearest trashcan.

He just wanted to go home. Wherever home was. Even if home meant death. He'd see Bianca again, wouldn't he? He snorted, scowling.

_Stop thinking about her!_

But he couldn't. He couldn't stop thinking about where he had gone wrong. Her death had definitely been the catalyst. He hadn't been ready to lose his sister so early in his life. He'd already lost his mother, he didn't know his father (at least as a proper loving father)—he didn't have anyone. The one friend he thought he had led Bianca to her death . . . even if he didn't mean to.

(He knew Percy didn't mean to! He had forgiven him . . . and yet he hadn't . . .)

It was enough to break him. He'd set out, trying to amass enough power to bring her back to life, even if she didn't want him to. He'd gone to Minas first and then his father and then Kro—

_No. It was a covert operation!—_

—nos. He sucked in a breath and shook his head. _Stop. Thinking._

He walked into an alley—deserted and filled with reeking trash, his fists clenched—and raised a shaking hand. A wall of shadows encompassed the alley, preventing anyone outside from seeing what he was about to do. Thorns flowed through his veins, prickling his senses, enraging him. He closed his eyes, imagined a long, keen point followed by a cone shaped body, smooth and slender and—

He struck the wall and watched as it collapsed in on itself, a mountain of fine dust scattered in the air as a symphony of fists and kicks howled for blood and vengeance.

* * *

><p>The alley was gone, uprooted even. Solid stakes jutted out from the ground, followed by unending trenches so deep that it was completely black. The walls had simply vanished into thin air, revealing the insides of now vacant office buildings, painted with dust and dirt. He spotted the British police swarming the scene, baffled and befuddled. Was it an earthquake? they asked; was it a freak accident?<p>

Nico smiled bitterly. They would never guess it was one boy's temper tantrum. A deep feeling of shame clouded his thoughts.

_You're too old for this . . . _He shook his head and backed into one of the buildings in secret, calling to the shadows. He was tired. He wanted something to eat.

He reappeared in a diner on the opposite side of town. He snuck into the kitchen, jumping from shadow to shadow, surrounding himself in darkness as he snatched a loaf of bread and some sliced meat sitting on the counter. He didn't wait to hear the aftermath of the missing food, immediately shadow-traveling to the alleyway between two restaurants a few blocks down. He wolfed down the food as if it were only a means to survive.

It was tasteless.

He could feel it slithering down his throat. He almost choked envisioning a snake squirming in slime. He briefly closed his eyes as he leaned against the wall. He could imagine his brain humming with thoughts, ensconced in utter blackness, unable to clear it out—

He opened his eyes and heaved a deep sigh. He felt hollow and weak; all he wanted to do was sleep.

Eat, sleep, and poop.

He wished he was a dog.

He wished he couldn't experience feelings.

He shook his head, erasing his dark thoughts. This was why he didn't want to go on any quest or fall into a stupid portal. He didn't want any more pain; he just wanted to be left alone. So what if he was left to rot? Who cared anyway? Certainly not his father. Who ignored him for years until now? Ding, ding, ding! Hades, Lord of the Underworld! The god was barely deserving of the word "father."

(Percy would care . . . Percy's mom would care . . . Annabeth would care . . . Bianca . . .)

He pushed himself off the wall, his sluggish limbs struggling to keep him standing. He felt tired but not the kind of fatigue where he could go to sleep and wake up rejuvenated. It was the bone-tired feeling—weary from the deep fibers of his bones and blood. He wondered if it would ever go away. It wasn't a pleasant feeling.

He blinked twice, rubbing his eyes. He needed caffeine or sugar or something just so he could stay awake. A weight was pressing down on him. Was it lethargy or was the air just that heavy in England? He took a deep breath and tried to ignore it. But it almost strained him to hold his head up.

If he squinted a little and added in a sparkle of morbid imagination, he could see a black cloud hovering over him, appearing as if it were ready to implode.

He shook his head again, ridding himself of the gloomy visage. If he thought about death and depression all the time, he certainly would go insane (if he wasn't already).

He directed his thoughts elsewhere . . . only to end up thinking about yesterday. The wizards. Harry. The promise—

He winced. Another one. He'd broken another promise. _Why_ couldn't he _keep_ them?

Technically it wasn't completely broken! He could go back and . . . and what? They'd kicked him out. He'd beat up his alleged charge. He took a deep breath.

_Another broken promise, another costly mistake . . ._

He exhaled sharply. He—he could fix this! He knew he couldn't go back to those wizards, but what if he did something else for them without being anywhere near them?

They were all fighting a common enemy, some blasphemous Dark Lord. That was the whole point of their war wasn't it? So he could just find this Dark Lord, assassinate him, and he'd technically fulfill his promise of protection . . .

He paused. _The broken soul pieces . . . If they belong to him he'll be impossible to permanently kill. I'd have to destroy all of them first. _

But he'd have to locate them. And for him to locate any and all the fool had created, he'd have to use his remaining soul as a channel. _Which means I need to find him._

He took one last deep breath before shadow travelling out of the alley.

_I can fix this._


End file.
